White Wedding
by wzlwmn
Summary: Begins with Erik's thoughts on his wedding day. Very dark, very disturbed and disturbing Erik. Forewarned is forearmed.
1. Chapter 1

I dressed more meticulously than ever today; my wedding day. My suit and shirt are new, but I am wearing my favorite waistcoat, the one I wore the first day she laid eyes on me. The day she learned that her angel was mere flesh and blood. Christine has forgiven me that lie. Her first kiss told me that she had forgiven me everything.

I woke early, took a leisurely bath, and scuffed around in slippers and robe, preparing my last bachelor's breakfast. Tomorrow morning, I will bring strawberries and cream, buttery croissants, champagne and coffee to my precious bride. She will stretch and turn dewy eyes on me, smile and call me the best husband in the world. And so I shall be. I have suffered in the deepest realms of hell for the privilege of adoring her and giving her the world.

The world; her world is above ground, and so shall mine be now. I am not afraid to reenter the world, because sunlight pours through the chinks that Christine has made in my heart. I have drawn up plans for the fairy castle I will build her; bright, airy and open, as opposite my lair as any place could be. There will be great windows opening onto a garden wonderland, and a pond with a fountain for swans and ducks. Someday she will bring our children down to the pond to feed the birds. In my minds eye, I already see her, crouching to pry the chubby fingers open, encouraging them to release the breadcrumbs into the water. I hear the babies squealing at the ducks' tails twitching as they pop their heads beneath the water.

Christine will be a beautiful mother. Her children will bloom like so many flowers in the garden; never starved for nourishing love and light as I was. They'll grow knowing they are safe, beautiful and wanted. Our lives will be full of music.

Time to go; I turn and glance around my lonely haven one last time. Oh, we will return here later, but there is no going back. The Erik who leaves here now is gone forever. Tonight, we will transform this soulless cavern with our duet. Goodbye, endless night.

The carriage ride is long; the church is well out of the city. I would have preferred somewhere closer, but the choice was not mine to make. It is a pleasant enough ride; I even doze. I understand that most men in my position feel some trepidation, wondering perhaps if it is the right time, or if she is the right girl. Not Erik. I have waited too long and dreamed too many dreams I thought would never come true. Those who are beautiful can afford the luxury of hesitating in case something better comes along later. Anyway, who could there ever be for me but Christine? Who was there, ever, before her? No one, no one.

But surely you are at least a bit worried about tonight, Erik, you suggest. Worried about what must be–what you have never experienced–it is only natural that you should worry: will it be alright? Will I please her? Will she welcome me? No; I am not concerned. I have lived among the gypsies; observed the harems of the East, and spied upon the furtive groping in dark corners of the Opera House. I know what women most definitely do not want; and I believe I know how to please Christine. She must be approached with all the love I bear her; and passion tempered by generosity. What I see of men is all take, take, take; never a thought for the other person in the dance. How can anyone warm to being treated as less than human, as a thing? I can tell you: one never does warm to it.

It is a glorious day outside; though it would be glorious to me even if it was grey and sleeting. Still, it's good the day is sunny and the sky is clear; it is important to Christine that today is perfect in every way. I believe I will enjoy walking in the sunlight again. Wherever we build our home, we must remember to find a place with some wise, ancient trees on the grounds. I love to nap in the shelter of a large tree, particularly if there is birdsong and bees buzzing nearby. It will be a fine place to play with the children, tell them fantastic stories of exotic lands, encourage their dreams and calm their fears.

I arrive at the church purposely early; I have some time to wait. It is cool and silent inside; the entire chapel is enveloped in a heady melody of fragrance. Each pew bears a mixed bouquet of tulips, roses, lilacs, narcissus and lily-of-the-valley, all white, and secured with wide satin ribbon of the palest green. Likewise the altar, only the bouquets are much larger, filled out with pale green hydrangea. I slip up to the choir loft and settle in the shadows to take my ease. I close my eyes and think of my bride. I can feel her voice washing over me, buoying me up, carrying me away. This is how I will die, I think. I will lie down to the sound of Christine's voice, and let her carry me out to sea. I cannot imagine anything more beautiful.

I hear people making their way into the church. I exit the loft. Not long now. In these last few moments of quiet reflection, I consider praying. I know that I am damned; it was clear from the moment of my first breath that God had abandoned me. I like the arrangement I have with the Almighty, frankly. If he felt no obligation to create me whole and human–and then had no divine compassion to let me die, then I feel no obligation to send him gratitude and praise for this life. I consider praying for Christine, and for what we are pledging to build together today. Interesting how when lovers come together, they create a third entity; namely, the love between them. I mutter an awkward request for oversight of Christine, our children, and our marriage. Thank you. Amen.

The organ begins playing; my stomach does a back flip. I guess I spoke too soon about having no fear! Meg Giry moves down the aisle, blushing brightly; poor timid little thing. She looks quite lovely in her pale green dress. She wears a circlet of lilacs in her hair and carries a single white rose with a green ribbon tied around it. Meg arrives at the altar and nods to the priest shyly.

Meg's mother occupies the place of Christine's father today. Her dress is pale grey, and I'm sure she is elegantly handsome as always, but I really do not see her. Christine looks like a fairy princess. How will I ever be able to speak? I am so moved I can barely breathe. Her dress is so much grander than the shabby rag I dressed her likeness in. It is simple, which pleases me; nothing should detract from Christine's natural loveliness. Her shoulders are bare, the bodice is trimmed in pearls, and there is a large bow in the back. She has woven pearls through her sumptuous curls, as well. Her flowers are roses and lily-of-the-valley, I think; I cannot take my eyes from the face I adore. Her eyes glow with love; her lips are pink, full and utterly kissable. A slight maidenly flush colors her cheeks; she is perfect, and nearly mine.

The priest had bade everyone sit, and launches into the standard Latin rigamarole. This provides a few minutes in which the couple may collect themselves. I wonder how anyone can concentrate on whatever he's spouting with my Angel before them. Now he is talking about friendship as the foundation of marriage, and how love which grows from friendship is the worthiest of all. How does a man, celibate for life by choice, know this? Once again, the ways of Providence baffle me.

Finally, it is time for the ceremony. I draw a deep breath, awaiting my cue. How like the night of Don Juan it is. Ah, here it comes: "If any man can show just cause why this man and this woman should not be married, let him speak now or forever hold his–"

I move purposefully from the baptismal alcove where I'd remained unseen, stride to the altar, and pause a step above and slightly behind the priest. Christine's mouth has dropped, and nearly everyone else is dumbstruck.

"Yes. I can."

The priest has found his tongue. "I beg your pardon, Sir? Who are you, and how dare you interrupt this blessed occasion?"

"But you summoned me here yourself, Father. I have come in response to your question."

"Of all the impertinence!"

"They should not be married because she belongs to me."


	2. Chapter 2

"Leave this church, you demon!" the boy screams. In his fury, he reaches for a sword he is not wearing. He is easily ignored.

I step closer to my angel bride. She has not taken her eyes from me since I appeared. I reach out to her as I had when we met.

"Come."

"Christine, NO!" He leaps between us and tears her away. Reaching beneath my cape, I remove the lasso from my hip, allowing it to rest easily in my hand. Some of the wedding guests gasp or cry out. Christine struggles against the foolish pest.

"Raoul," she pleads.

"Christine," he begins to protest anew, tightening his grip on her delicate arms. I wince with pain as I feel my beloved's rose-petal flesh bruise in his unwelcome hold.

"CAN'T YOU SEE YOU'RE DISTRESSING HER?" I bellow. He starts.

"Release her, now." I threaten.

"Raoul, please," she repeats. He studies her, disbelieving what he reads on her face. At last he relents, releases her. Brushing past him, she reaches for my waiting hand.

Turning to the muddled priest, I order, "Marry us."

"By God!" he gasps.

Simultaneously, her boy lover boy rushes us. Sheltering Christine against me, I extend the coiled rope toward him, halting his progress. The guests scream and huddle together.

"You monster! You've had your answer! She'll never be yours!" the hapless bridegroom exclaims, unable to accept the inevitable

"Oh, won't she? Stand aside, youngling. You are no more welcome at my wedding than I am at yours." Forgetting him, I turn back to the priest.

"Come, Father." Uncomprehending, he looks at Christine. She meets the priest's gaze solemnly.

"You see, Father, the lady makes her wishes clear, does she not?"

Once again the dimwitted comte asserts himself. He strikes me in the back, but he has never been a match for me. I have him wrapped in the secure embrace of my lasso in short order.

"I have no desire to sully this day with unpleasantness, my dear comte, but that my slight patience is fast eroding with your interference," I growl. I move my gnarled face even closer to his perfect one. "Surely you realize how much more I will despise you if you spoil this day for my darling bride. As it is, I dream nightly of wringing your neck like the insignificant goose you are." I jerk the noose tighter. "_Will you continue to antagonize me?_"

"Raoul, let it be. Can't you see?" Christine adds.

"Christine, what are you saying?" he demands.

"Raoul…" Something in her eyes persuades him that it's useless, and I feel him abandon the struggle as suddenly as he'd mounted it. I throw him away from me and seize Christine about the waist, snatching her to my side. Again the guests shriek. My heart churns in my breast at having to handle Christine so roughly, but there is an unfortunate method to my savagery. The boy does not lack courage; he would fight me to his death on Christine's behalf, but if I can make him fear for her safety, I know he will not threaten me again. Of course, Christine knows I would never hurt her, but still it grieves me to have to put on such a display in order that our wedding may proceed in peace. As I intend, the implicit threat freezes him in his tracks.

"She is saying, you idiot, that she will be my wife this day," I spit. "Father, if you will, please."

Christine and I move to face the priest, who asks for my name.

"Erik."

He speaks softly to the two of us, and in a few short moments, Christine is my wife before god, man, and her tiresome, weeping little comte. When we kiss before the witnesses, I see the tears in my angel's eyes and begin myself to weep.

As we back from the church, I warn the bereft boy and the little congregation not to pursue or otherwise interfere with us, or I promise to extract a horrible vengeance.

"No," Christine echoes, "leave us be!" My heart all but breaks with joy; my little bride wants me all to herself.

We ride back to town unmolested. Once we are safe in our home, I can rest. No one can pursue us here, and even if they should pursue, no one can prevail against me in my world. I have prepared a cold supper for us, but Christine is overcome by the events of the day, and will take only a bit of tea.

"What is it, my dear? Are you ill?" I worry.

"No…Erik," she replies. The first time she has called me by my name!

"Ah, I think I understand, my angel. It has not been the blissfully peaceful day you had imagined. I'm sorry; I wanted it to be perfect for you." Once again, I feel my fury burn higher. "It's that damnable comte, interfering once again!" I see that my anger upsets her further, so I struggle to calm myself. "There, Christine, don't fear anymore; he'll not trouble us again. Your husband has seen to it; and shall continue to do so, until death us do part," I soothe her, stroking her glorious hair as she weeps with relief.

"Would you like to sing, Christine?"

"Yes, thank you." We sing and share a bottle of wine. She begins to relax, and soon she seems more herself.

"Erik," she says suddenly. "You never told me your name." I have no answer for this. She glances at the clock and pales: it is half-ten already. She leaps to her feet, fretful again.

"I would like to have a bath," she blushes fiercely. It is as I suspected.

"Let me run it for you," I smile. When the bath is warm and fragrant with rose and muguet, I call for her. Her eyes flutter anxiously when he sees that I make no move to leave her. I slip behind her to unfasten the buttons of her gown. As I slip the gown from her shoulders, she darts away. 

"Please, please…" she whimpers, clutching her gown to her breast protectively.

"You need not fear your little husband, my angel. Erik wishes to bathe you."

Tears spring to her eyes. "No!" She shakes her head wildly.

"Ssshhh. Ssshhh, Christine," I soothe. I kiss her cheek, and take her chilly little hands in my own, allowing her gown to drop to the floor. She whimpers again wordlessly. I move to unlace her corset. She protests no further and soon my bride stands before me, Venus-like. Instantly inflamed, I struggle for composure as I help her into the bath. I begin sponging her hands, wrists, forearms before moving to her neck. As I move the sponge from her shoulder just onto her chest, she whispers, "Please no."

The sponge travels inexorably between her breasts, around and up, teasing her; torturing me. I release the sponge and it drifts away unnoticed. My fingers glide softly as bubbles over rosebud nipples. Of their own volition, my lips travel to her neck. She dodges the kiss, sliding away in the oversized tub.

"Towel, please," she whispers. I wrap her in two warm towels from shoulders to toes and scoop her into my arms. When I lay her on the bed, she leaps up immediately, clutching one towel about her as she struggles to dry herself with the other. I remove my shoes, my shirt; it is damp, and stretch out on the bed. There is only one small lamp burning in the room, but I will not upset her by removing my mask just yet. She finishes drying herself and sees that I await her. She joins me timidly.

"Close your eyes, my angel. I will pleasure you."

"I'm afraid," she sobs. I caress her jaw and throat slowly; she is trembling.

"Close your eyes," I whisper again. "Just feel, Christine. Erik will not hurt you."

I guide her beneath the coverlet in case any of her trembling is due to the cool and damp in our home. She will be warm soon enough. She closes her eyes as I draw her into my arms.

"Christine," I whisper, stroking her hair, "tomorrow morning I will show you plans I've drawn up for our home. Yes, Erik will build a castle for his princess, anywhere she likes. Above, I mean; in the sunlight, will that please you?"

She nods.

"You must tell me honestly what you think of it; I will change it however you like, Darling." I kiss her, as much as the mask will allow, sliding a hand inside the towel to cup her breast. Her nipple swells against my palm, and my mouth goes dry. I douse the light; tonight I will not look at her, so that she will be spared the sight of me. I remove my mask, turning away briefly to slip it under my pillow.

"Erik?"

"I am here, Christine." I return to take her back into my arms. "What is it?"

"I thought you had gone," she says in a small voice.

"Oh no," I promise. I kiss her again, caressing her breasts to life. Our kisses deepen and I take my cue from her breathing as to when to explore her body further. She yields hesitantly to my touch until my hand strays onto her belly.

"I beg you," she whispers.

"Christine, I fear it is my turn to beg you," I confess. "Let me touch you. Let me love you." But she is so frightened; what a pure, good girl I have wed. My heart all but breaks for her as she struggles to press my hands away.

"No! No, I want to go home," she cries.

"But you are home, my angel. You are home with your loving husband." I remind her gently.

"Yes. I am," she says softly at last. "I am home with my husband." She accepts my touch obediently now, but I still feel her trembling in my hands. She tries to deny the pleasure I give her. She gasps and sighs, pushing against my chest as I claim her. She cries out; I feel a stab of sympathy for my precious bride. Why must I harm her to love her? I would sooner harm myself.

"I am sorry, my Love. I am sorry," I insist. My crisis comes quickly; so much the better for her. I kiss her, breathing love into her mouth. As I draw away to gather her into my arms, I feel Christine's tears on my skin.

"I promise it will be better next time, Christine. Forgive me." She nods silently. "I love you, little wife." She curls up against me and we fall asleep entwined.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, I lay out a peignoir set for Christine, realizing that all her clothing and possessions remain at Chagny. Poor dear; nothing but her wedding dress. I will see to that after my little darling has her breakfast.

"Good morning, Angel," I sing, slipping the tray into her lap.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "Oh! Such beautiful strawberries!"

"Nothing is too good for you, Christine, you will see. Now you're mine, your Erik will spoil you and dote on you as if you hung the stars in the sky," I promise. Tears spring to her eyes again; the depth of my feeling overwhelms her. Very well then, I shall have to prove my devotion by allowing action to speak for itself. I hand her my handkerchief; she nods and wipes her precious tears. How I shall treasure that handkerchief! Christine returns to her strawberries, their juice coloring her lips even redder. It is a stirring sight to an adoring bridegroom.

I pour the champagne and raise my glass. "To you, my Angel." Her eyes flicker modestly as she sips. I sing her a favorite gypsy love song. When it is finished, she melts breathlessly into my arms, nearly swooning as we kiss. I long to possess her again; to bathe her in tenderness and wash away the pain and fear of our first night's loving. But no; what would she think of me? I must remind myself that we have a lifetime, now. Just one more kiss, and I put her away from me gently.

"And now, Princess, shall I show you your castle?" I fetch the drawings quickly. The first picture I lay before her is of the front elevation of the house; I have added some landscaping and colored it in pastels.

"There is a long, tree-lined carriage drive," I begin painting Christine the word picture of her earthly paradise. I flip to the sketch of the first floor.

"When you step into the large entry hall, the parlor is to your left, the drawing room to your right. Continuing down the hall, the library, left; the dining room, right. Behind the dining room, the kitchen." I show her the small drawing of the kitchen garden to the side of the house.

"And across the entire back, the conservatory which gives onto the balcony, overlooking your gardens."

When Christine sees my humble rendering of the back garden, she begins to weep again. "A fountain, a pond; oh, how lovely... "

"There, Darling," I soothe, kissing her hand.

"It is a beautiful house!" she cries. Christine rushes away and secretes herself in the bath. So many tears; I admit I am puzzled. I know she likes the house--what she has seen of it, anyway. She seems so fragile. I'm not just being a fretful new husband; she's running another bath. I knock gently.

"Christine, there is no need to run the water, my dear; I know that you're crying again."

"I want a bath," she replies, petulantly.

"You've only just had a bath not two hours ago, Angel; have you forgotten? Come out, now. Come along; finish your breakfast. I'll put the house plans away since they upset you." What in heaven's name is wrong with her?

She emerges, eyes downcast; a tiny, red-faced mess. "I'm just trying to get clean," she sniffles.

"But you are clean, Darling. Come and eat; you've only just picked at a few strawberries."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're going to make yourself ill if you eat no more than that. Come, little bird, where is your appetite today? Is there something else you would prefer? Only say so…"

"No. Thank you."

I draw her into my arms and stroke her hair. "You worry me sometimes, my dear," I sigh.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be sorry; I only wish I could bring a smile to this precious face. Surely you're not unhappy with me already?"

It seems she is silent for an eternity. My heart creeps into my throat as my off-handed comment gives way to mounting terror.

Finally, Christine nods her head slightly. "I am...happy. I'm tired. Perhaps I should lie down."

I can breathe again. "That's an excellent idea, Angel; it was quite a day yesterday, wasn't it?"

She nods. Suddenly her eyes widen. "Oh, but you have things to do today, don't you, Erik? You can't--I mean, you won't--you're not--" She looks frantic. I have no idea what she is trying to say; all I want is to settle her somehow. Is she afraid of being alone down here?

"Yes, I've plenty to occupy me here at home today. I'll be just outside; I won't leave you. Is that alright, Christine?"

"Yes." She brightens, actually smiling a bit. "Yes, you'll be just outside. That's very good. Very good." She permits me to tuck her in and accepts my kiss demurely; I catch a glimpse of the former Christine. It will be alright, I think.

Christine sleeps all day long; each time I look in on her, she is resting peacefully. When she is rested, she has a ravenous youthful appetite, so I set to work on a good dinner for her. About half-seven, I slip in to wake her. I kneel beside her, covering her hand with my own as I call her softly.

"Christine... "

She comes awake flailing and screaming, crawling away wild-eyed. When she realizes where she is, and that she is safe, she collapses, sobbing again. I gather her onto my lap as one does a child who's fallen from a swing. I rock her gently and hum. As my voice relaxes her, she clutches my shirt and shivers.

"Cold," she whispers.

"You must come and eat, I've prepared a fine hot meal for you. That's partly why you're cold; you're empty," I remind her. "Come along, my sleepyhead." I carry her to the table and slip my house coat over her shoulders. I chuckle as I serve up her dinner; she looks lost among the folds of black fabric. She pitches in heartily, which relieves me enough to eat a bit myself.

"Did I really sleep all day?" she asks, surprised. "Is it really half-eight?"

I nod. "You've not been yourself, my dear. I'm gratified to see you eating. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I--yes."

"It distresses me to have to bring it up this evening, Darling, but you may recall that all your clothing and belongings are…elsewhere." Instantly her eyes darken. I reach for her hand, longing to comfort her. I can only guess at the memories which haunt her. Guilt knots my stomach for ever letting her go with him; what a fool I was, so immersed in my own grief that I could not recognize her cry for rescue. It was only later, as I tortured myself endlessly with events of that dreadful night that I realized what Christine had been trying to tell me. It all came crystal clear; the first kiss to save the boy's life, the second to tell me it was me she wanted; her return to give me the ring; turning back to me with a silent plea as he spirited her away.

"There, Christine, you needn't return to that place. Erik shall see to it. I shall send word tomorrow." She sighs shakily as I pat her hand.

-0-0-0-0-

I leave the light on low tonight; tonight I want to see her better. Christine tenses the moment I embrace her, clamps her eyes shut tight. I draw close and whisper words of encouragement.

"I will not hurt you again, Angel; remember, I promised." Of course she is afraid, dammit. What sort of way is this to begin a life together? It will not do for my abiding fury with the so-called almighty to flare now; I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and my eyes water. Crude; but it distracts the beast within.

"Shall I sing, Christine?" She nods and I stroke her back gently, gently. I feel her relaxing with each breath. I glide from one song into the next, and soon it is Christine's loving gaze I am basking in once again

"Sing with me. " I breathe it against her ear and she shudders, taking up the melody as easily as drawing a breath. My adoring voice defers to hers and slips into a poignant minor key counter melody. I feel almost guilty weaving this spell, but I tell myself that if she can only move past her fear, she will see that we can find heaven with our bodies as well as our voices. Christine responds almost immediately; her eyes widen, lips part, and I see that she is not breathing properly for singing.

I caress her lips as she sings; trace her jaw line; slide my hand onto her graceful throat. Our song fades. Her eyes are closed; I remove my mask and claim her lips. Slipping her gown from her shoulders, I trail kisses over her silken flesh. It seems to glow in the lamplight. I capture a nipple between my lips; Christine gasps and arches her back, weaving her fingers into my hair. Her body undulates beneath my mouth and hands.

My lips meander over her ribs, hips; lower. I sense her uncertainty, and so move back to her ear for another song, continuing my attentions with my hand. She is fully enchanted again soon, and I move gently but swiftly to my treasured destination. Christine is more than willing now. Her thighs part at my slightest touch; her hips move to encourage my efforts; again her fingers entangle in my hair. Her sighs make an incomparable melody; her fragrance, her taste are more than I can bear. I tremble violently, mad with love; all but blind with desire. She surrenders to me, her muscles taut, her hands clenching great handfuls of my hair. She wails and mews, seizes, and falls back as if in a faint. I move over her and she embraces me languidly. Her eyes are closed and her smile is dreamy and peaceful. It is much easier sliding inside her tonight; she coos with surprise and begins to move with me. Oh, bliss; I wish I could die now. She draws me into a kiss, the longest ever; how sweetly demanding she is.

We begin our climb to the summit together; a glorious dance. Suddenly I am ashamed of all the ugly thoughts I've harbored; forgive me, God, I pray silently. Thank you, thank you for this miracle that I'd lost all hope of experiencing. Thank you for this girl; thank you for helping her to love me, despite myself. Christine's hands tighten on my shoulders; I feel each of her fingers digging in deliciously. Her moans tell me her crisis is near again; she urges me on wordlessly. I whisper that I adore her as she begins to tremble. She squeezes me rhythmically inside her; I am coming with her now. She embraces me so tightly I can scarcely breathe. Raising her hips, she throws her head back, and cries out:

"Raoul!"


	4. Chapter 4

Raoul? 

It is a moment before I can speak. When I am able, I correct her: "No, Christine."

Our faces are mere inches apart. The instant the spell is broken, I see it. She opens heavy eyelids with effort, wearing a whisper of a smile. She looks up into burning, golden eyes: not Raoul. Her eyes fly wide in horror; her face contorting as she recognizes the apparition she embraces.

"NO!" she shrieks. Mad with shame, she throws me away from her easily. I am hollow and weightless, my mind cut adrift; no safe harbors to make for. Christine escapes into the bath, screaming 'What did you do? What did you do to me?' I hear the bath water running and I remember: 'I just want to get clean'. Yes, I remember now.

I must remain very still and concentrate; it seems I have forgotten how to breathe if I do not focus all of my attention on it. Suddenly, sweat is pouring from me, but I'm not warm…I feel nothing. If anything, I must be cold, for my hands are shaking as if I've a palsy. I can scarcely lift my hands to my head, but I must hold it; it may burst. I am so afraid; I don't know why. Oh, if only I had a mother. I lay quietly, thinking about breathing, until I hear sounds that suggest Christine may emerge from the bath. I grope for my mask blindly and run to my little room.

I feel better curled up this small, lightless space. I am shaking all over now, but I can breathe easier. I will remain here tonight and review these events, and I will understand in the morning. Yes, I will.

Raoul…Raoul…He is a handsome enough youth. It is natural for a girl like Christine with so little experience of the world to have her head turned by his gallantry for a time, I realize this. But in her heart, she knows what is truly beautiful and what is merely stage lighting and smoke. She proves it each time she kisses me, each time we sing.

Could her unwavering gaze as I claimed her at the altar have been false?

Or her tearful return to me, slipping the ring into my hand with a silent plea?

What of the lies she told him, pretending to be his fiancée while she waited for me?

Pandemonium all around us in the church, and Christine and I floated in a cool underground lake of peace. Her little hand in mine, her eyes telling me she had all she needed now I was near.

He turns her head; he manipulates her shamelessly, preying on her innocence and trusting nature. The poor angel could never imagine that a friend of her childhood would dissemble. He tried to convince her to betray me, swearing it was for the good of the city that a murderous fiend be captured and brought to heel, but I saw his duplicitous hand in it; I knew his true, dark motivation.

The longer I think on it, the more it comes clear: he tampered with her while she was under his roof. Being something less than an utter debauchee, or fearing for his immortal soul, more likely, he did not press the matter to its inevitable conclusion. No doubt the game was pleasant enough with the liberties he took, and he believed she would be his soon enough, after all.

None of this casts any blame on my Angel. Gullible and trusting in the company of her old friend, she would not immediately grasp the nature of his advances; when she did, she would easily be overwhelmed. It is common knowledge that it falls upon the gentleman to exercise every restraint, the woman being the more passionate creature. He pressed his advantage–though thankfully not so far as he might have done--and Christine possesses a fiery nature. Thus, it makes perfect sense that, not entirely understanding what was happening to her in my arms, she would cry out the name of the only man who had ever elicited similar feelings in her. Yes; yes. I may kill him yet.

My poor darling bride; lying awake this very minute, no doubt, worrying what her husband must think of her, fearing disgrace. She will grow to be more confident in my steadfast adoration with time, but for now, I must reassure her that she is eternally blameless in my sight.

Once the riddle of Christine's behavior is unraveled, I feel sleep overtaking me. I slip into my coffin and drift into dreams of sunshine, flowers, and my little bride singing.

-0-0-0-0-

I wake before dawn, refreshed. I dress quickly, head upstairs, and hire a carriage to Chagny. I will collect my wife's things today, by god. I've brought my sword and lasso; I don't really want to kill him if I don't have to, but he will be unprotected by Christine in this encounter, and I cannot vouch for my temper. I ought to run him through on principle for taking advantage of an innocent girl's trusting nature.

The massive Chagny door is answered by a fat, sour little woman who appears to be smelling something nasty.

"Are you expected, SIR?" she wheezes, clearly giving me full benefit of the doubt.

I have neither time nor patience. It is barely half-seven; who the devil is ever expected at half-seven in the morning? Stupid cow.

"I should be, but perhaps not. Your lord and master is not the shiniest apple on the tree; perhaps you have noticed."

She glares at me, pretending to think. I give her as benign a look as I can.

"Will you come in? I will fetch the Comte." As I suspected; something in the authoritative way I carry myself causes her to rethink her initial inclination to turn me away like a starving, vermin-infested cat.

"Thank you; no. I will await him here. If you will tell him, Erik."

"JUST 'Erik'?" she disapproves.

My sole response is a stare which conveys much less irritation than I feel.

No doubt this will take some time. The master must be roused, a fire lit under his brain…I crouch Indian-style and practice knot tying. Finally the door flies open and His Highness clatters out. He is moderately incoherent to find that it is, indeed, Erik on his doorstep.

"Where is Christine? What do you mean, saying you're expected here? What do you want?" And, again, for good measure, "Where is Christine?"

"She is in our home, likely still asleep. I mean that you should have expected someone to come and collect her things, since you gave her to me with, ah, excuse me, nothing but the dress on her back. I want her things; you know, clothing, shoes, toiletries, ribbons, bows, mementoes, whatever bric-a-brac she brought with her: I want it. Do you understand?"

"There's no need to speak to me as if I'm an idiot!" He is very pink. I have no response.

"You fiend! Why didn't you let her come herself? Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"She did not want to come herself." He looks incredulous at this news.

"Yes," I confirm. "She was very much relieved when I promised her that I would see to it. I already told you, she is in our home, and as to what I've one with her, I shall forgive you your impertinence–this time–and suggest that it is none of your affair."

He goes slightly mad and lunges at me, but he has a full complement of hired sycophants in attendance; they pull him off. I see that he's weeping like a schoolgirl. I feel strangely calm.

"I won't give you a single stitch! You bring her back! You can't keep her; she'd rather die!"

"You'll give me what I ask for; it's not yours to keep from her. As for keeping her, you seem to forget that she came with me freely. If you were so concerned, why didn't you fight for her? I would've enjoyed fighting you," I can't resist giving him a nasty grin.

"I didn't fight you," he shrugs off his minions and steps bravely close, "because I'd given Christine my word that I wouldn't. You couldn't know this, but she's been plagued by nightmares since that night in the Opera House. She dreamed every night that she was pursued, and could never escape. Sometimes she dreamed that I was dead, and still she was pursued. The nightmares worsened as the wedding approached. She knew you would come; she told me."

"I might've known you'd make a coward's excuse and hide behind a woman's skirts," I spit. "She WANTED me to come, you fool. If she was haunted in her dreams, it was the prospect of a lifetime with you that haunted her. Now: get her things; I can't stand the sight of you."

"You're madder than even I imagined! God! Christine! I'll save her from you if I have to kill you!" The boy has far more nerve than brains.

I shoot the non-lethal end of my lasso at him; it leaves a smarting red abrasion where it slapped his insolent cheek. No real harm done, but it infuriates him. He whips out his sword; alright. We scuffle around to no real effect until he kicks at me; this takes me at a disadvantage, and I end up with a decent slice in my thigh for my trouble. I roar indignantly and manage to repay him with a cut from his nose diagonally onto his forehead. Excellent; nothing to it, but it bleeds handsomely and soon he can't see.

I know the police have been summoned, so I tear out for the brush surrounding the estate while I have the chance. I put as much space between myself and the house as possible; I am not sure whether they'll give chase or not. My trousers are soaked with blood. I am forced to spend a moment I don't really have to tear the sleeves from my shirt and do something about the damage the boy inflicted. I should have killed him in the church; hindsight.

I climb a tree and hide easily from the police: morons. Once they've gone, I make a slow trip back to the main thoroughfare in the hope of locating a cab. I'm feeling a bit lightheaded and could surely use something to eat, but I must hurry. I know that Christine will panic if she finds herself alone down there, particularly after last night.


	5. Chapter 5

When I return home, Christine is nowhere to be found. I shove a bit of bread and cheese into my pocket and take a quick slug of wine before I head out to search the corridors for her. I am accustomed to the normal sounds in my caverns, so it does not take long before I hear her whimpering. I render another bit of thanks to god that she didn't come to grief in any of my traps. I shall have to scold her about that sufficiently to frighten her.

"Christine!"

"ERIK! ERIK! Oh, please! I'm–I don't know, I don't know where I am!" she wails.

"I know where you are, Christine," I sing. "I'm coming; wait for me, Angel. I am almost there now. Just another minute and Christine is found; Christine is safe. Here I am, my love." I kneel to help her to her feet. "Christine, good god, you're cold as the grave," I worry.

She throws herself against me and nearly knocks me from my feet. "Erik, Erik," she burrows into my neck. "Where were you? Don't leave me anymore, you mustn't leave me here!"

"Wait, child, let me get my coat around you," I murmur. I wrap her up and carry her home. Even my humming to calm her has little effect. Ironically, the best thing to do to warm her is run a hot bath and bring her a mug of mulled wine.

"Erik, your leg!" she cries. "What have you done?"

"Well, I had a bit of a swordfight, Angel; it's not much of a slice, really," I fib.

"But–who–"

"I went to fetch your clothing, and your friend was not inclined to give it up."

"Raoul!" she gasps. Again. "Is he–"

"He has a minor cut to his forehead, Christine. Of the two, your husband is much the worse for wear, I assure you." I snap. When I see how crestfallen she becomes, I regret the irritable moment. "Here, hop in the bath, little wife; I'll heat you some wine. I hope you haven't caught a chill."

I put the wine on to simmer with some spices; no lemons or oranges around, and I adore her, but I'm damned if I'm going up for fruit. Using a wet towel and blasphemy, I peel the crusty trousers from my wound, opening it again. I have to sew myself up; it is deep and about five inches long. As I stitch, I nurse fantasies of sewing his insolent mouth shut…or those dreamy eyes stitched closed forever. Ahhh…all finished. I slip into fresh trousers and shrug a shirt on. Christine has nothing to wear, really: I grab another shirt for her. I will go upstairs directly and get her some clothing, just enough that she can go out decently for herself. That bastard; if I think on this my blood will boil.

"Here you are, Angel." She is hiding, big eyed, in a mountain of fragrant foam; the hand peeks out to accept the wine. "I brought you a shirt of mine. I am afraid it will have to do until I can get you enough clothing so that you can go and shop for yourself. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Thank you."

"Christine, you mustn't wander in the caverns, Darling. It is extremely dangerous for someone who doesn't know her way. I will show you a quick, safe way out, but where did you think you were going?"

Like a naughty child, she thrusts her lip out. "I don't know! What could I do? I waited, I called for you everywhere! I was hungry, and cold, and naked; I had to get out!" She dissolved into tears again. "Never leave me, Erik! Never leave me!"

I kneel beside the tub. She checks her bubble coverage anxiously.

"Christine, surely you have more faith in me than that!"

She falls silent and turns pale. "Why did you go after my clothes anyway? You want me to go, don't you, after…"

"I don't want you to go."

Nonplussed, she shakes her head. "But after you found out that I–"

"I do not doubt your virtue, my Angel. I understand that you were fond of him; you were alone, lonely. He pressed his advantage; it's not your fault. You're a good girl," I smile.

"He didn't press his advantage–"

"Of course he did, Christine. He kissed you? Touched you perhaps?"

She flushes. "No. He kissed me, but he didn't do anything bad, and anyway if he did, I wanted him to!" She ends defiantly.

"It's alright, Christine, I tell you it's alright. I understand how you may have …made the mistake and said what you did last night. I can't say I wasn't taken aback, and I…hope it will not happen again…but I love you; nothing is changed."

She leaps up out of the bubbles angrily, nudity be damned, and splashes from the tub. Wrapping a towel around her dripping self, she glares at me. "NO! How can nothing be changed? How can you keep me?"

Suddenly my head begins to ache. I don't feel very well. What is she asking? "Christine…I don't understand this. What is it you want me to say? I do not blame you for what you said, or for what may have passed between you and your young suitor. I love you…do you want me to be cross with you about it? Why?"

"You said you loved me before and you let me go! Why won't you let me go?" she demands.

My mouth is so dry that I can barely speak. There must be some mistake. "Let you go? But you don't--I'm not feeling too well," I confess weakly. "I'm going to sit down."

She follows me, hovering as I stretch out. My hands are shaking again. "Erik? What is it? You aren't ill?"

"No…" I close my eyes, trying to be still. Christine takes my hand in hers and I want to weep; god help me, please, for once.

"You're not feverish…I hope it isn't your wound. Will you let me see?" she worries. Before I find the words to refuse her, she has slipped my trousers half off and her hands are on my thigh. There is no mistake; she does care for me. She is worried, she wants to comfort me. She loves me. She is young and confused, and I know perfectly who to blame, but she loves me: this I know. "You bled a great deal, didn't you? Oh, Erik!" she cries, dismayed.

"Christine," I sigh. I want her; in a moment she'll know it, no point in pretending otherwise. As I draw her down beside me, her towel falls away, useless. I remove my mask, making no attempt to hide the hunger in my gaze from her. "Christine, you're a goddess, I swear it."

"Erik, no," she whines.

"Yes. Yes. I hurt, Christine; make it better." I guide her hand someplace. "Touch me," I whisper. "No one has ever touched me, Christine; but you, you shall touch me…you do love your little husband, don't you?" I work her hand up and down my shaft. She whimpers and wants to shrink from it, but I press her down with kisses.

"Erik, don't. I don't want to touch it!"

"Don't be cross with your loving husband, Christine. You would be most unhappy if I were to tell you that I don't want to touch this…" I illustrate my point. She is being contrary in the extreme.

"I wouldn't; I don't want you to touch me!" she insists.

"That's not what you said last night," I remind her, flicking her earlobe with my tongue. "Christine, be my wife. I want you, darling."

"No, no; no more. Please, be my Strange Angel again," she begs, wriggling infuriatingly as I move to take her. "I want my Angel, not this!"

"I am no angel, Christine," I protest. "It is a man you married."

She begins to warm to my touch, if reluctantly. Out of hours, we shall have to address this. It must be difficult for a woman to suddenly believe that the very thing she must never do is now not only acceptable, but desirable, all because of a few words being pronounced.

"Shall I sing to you, Darling? Is it better if Erik sings to Christine?" I don't want to send her into a reverie every time I touch her, but if it is so very difficult for her in these first weeks, I will sing to her. I cannot torture her, but neither can I accept her refusal anymore. She is my drug. Having her all to myself has rendered my obsession with her even more complete.

"No," she replies softly. "I must learn…." She tries to relax like a good girl.

I renew my caresses. "Yes…and the learning shall not be so tedious, I promise you," I murmur. Each time she begins to enjoy my touch, I feel her tense and refuse the pleasure. Her body belies her chilly response; my finger slides inside her easily.

Immediately she protests the invasion. "Don't do that! OH!" She gasps and sighs, even as she tries to push me away.

"Hush, silly girl," I scold. "You tell me no, even as you open yourself." I kiss her once, twice; by the third she admits her need to herself. "Here, Christine," I make her touch me again. "Guide your husband inside. Show me."

Her eyes search for permission to disobey, but my gaze, full of love though it is, tells her that it is past the time for refusals. She draws me to the door of the sanctuary and bites her lip as I glide fully home.

"You see, it's well that you like it," I reassure her. She nods shyly; perhaps she'll cry again. "There's no shame here, do you see?"

"Yes. I see now," she admits. She offers her throat up for kisses, fingers in my hair. "I see," she shudders and wraps her legs around me. She admits the feelings our bodies conjure and this time when she cries out, it is for me. Further inflamed by my name on her lips, I love her violently, but she cries again and matches my passion–no. No, she urges me on, dares me to use her harder. Is it heaven when she loves me as I love her? I shudder and collapse, mindless. "Christine…" I roll away, fearful of my weight on my dearest bride. She won't release me, won't stop kissing me.

"But what about Raoul? I love Raoul," she frets tearfully.

"No, you don't. You don't love him, Christine," I pant. "Don't say it again, as you live and I love you." I'm too spent to demonstrate my anger.

She weeps even as she kisses me. "It was Raoul I was meant to marry."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY IT AGAIN! GET AWAY FROM ME! STAY ALONE UNTIL YOU LEARN RESPECT FOR YOUR HUSBAND!"

She runs to the bath. My wound has stiffened my whole leg, and it slows me, or I would have had her. As it is, she's slammed and locked the door several beats before I arrive. I throw myself against it, kick at it. The wood splits and splinters, slowly giving way. With each shuddering crack, Christine shrieks and weeps within.

"DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU!" Finally the door is broken and Christine cowers naked in the far corner. Her eyes reflect the figure of a madman back to me, and I run from her…


	6. Chapter 6

I am a shivering mass of flesh on the damp stone floor of my black room. I feel identical to the first days after I gave up the morphine years ago, except I'm not dripping snot and puking. I have no idea how long I've been here; all I know is I ran from her, afraid I'd do her harm in my fury. I staggered in here and collapsed in a bundle of horror. I slept, finally, and when I awoke, I was as I am now: sick. Christine has come several times to sit and whine outside my door. I know it's not delirium, because I'd never imagine Christine as such an insufferable pest; no, this must be real.

"'Erik, I know you're in there." "Please come out, I'm afraid!" "I'm hungry, Erik, there's nothing to eat." "I'm cold!" "You promised you'd get me clothing!" "I don't want to die down here!"

Et cetera. I could almost hate her now, with her incessant bleating for her comforts, but it's my own fault. Who else has taught her that her needs are paramount in the world if not me? Shame on Erik for failing to dance attendance when he is summoned to Queen Christina's court.

Thumping. Clanging. Glass? Glass shattering?

"ERIK!! ERIK! I'M LEAVING, DO YOU HEAR? I'LL DIE OUT THERE AND YOU'LL BE SORRY WHEN YOU FIND ME!"

"EEEEEEEEEEERRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKK!"

I tear my tongue from the roof of my mouth when I try to speak her name; only a dry croak escapes. God, not my voice, what have I got without my voice?

"Erik? What's wrong?" She rattles the door. Now she pounds on it again. "ERIK!"

I can't get to my feet; I'm shivering too violently, but I can crawl. Rather, I can drag myself; my leg is on fire from foot to hip, worse if I try to bend my knee. Useless. I don't know what's wrong, but I won't die. He'll die for making me suffer–oh, I've cataloged every one of his offenses, inscribed them on my black heart. I'll recite him the litany as his life bleeds away. I unlock the door and fall over. Christine shoves the door wider, catching my shoulder. I groan.

"Oh!" she jumps and peers in; her eyes are not as good in the dark as mine. She grumbles something about a lamp and scurries off. I take the opportunity to drag myself out of the way, lest she bash me again when she returns. She darts in and kneels beside me. "Oh, Erik! I could have perished," she scolds.

She's preparing an earful for me when she realizes I'm shaking like a caged rabbit. "What's WRONG with you?" she demands. She reaches for my arm and draws back with a shriek. "You're on fire! Oh, no, no…" she launches immediately into sobbing and hand-wringing.

"Christine," I rasp, "bed." Somehow, we manage to get me to the bed. The poor child's sensibilities are stretched to breaking; I'd run into my cave both naked and unmasked. She tosses the coverlet over me with relief and settles beside me fretting.

"Erik, how could you lock yourself away like that? You could have died!" She touches my forehead and goes weepy again. My little bride is not much in a crisis. I send her off to fetch me a drink, so I'll be able to speak sufficiently to either settle her or provide direction. She returns with wine and a damp cloth for my forehead; having a mission is good for her. The wine is a great help, but not as much as her little hands worrying over me.

"Christine, I believe my leg is rotting–have a look."

"Nooo," she whimpers.

"Christine, I did not ask you. You have an annoying tendency to imagine that everything I ask of you is discretionary."

"I'm afraid," she whines.

"LOOK AT MY BLASTED LEG, CHILD, OR I'LL THRASH YOU!"

She bites her lip and draws the coverlet back gingerly. She lowers her eyes reluctantly and promptly faints. My little helpmeet, in sickness and health. On my own again, I examine the wound as well as I can, rattling in my skin as I am. It is fairly nauseating, I must admit. It's swollen so that the stitches are doing more harm than good. It's oozing, hot, and red, and if I'm not septic, god has suddenly decided he loves me after all. I pat little nurse Christine's cheek in an effort to revive her.

"Christine…Christine, come, darling, I need your help, please. Please." Her eyes flutter open; she's none the worse for wear. "I need your help, Angel."

Incomprehensibly, she bursts into tears again. "Not now, Erik, please!"

"Oh, for god's sake, girl, are you mad? Listen. I'm going to tell you how to make your way out of here." I give her the simplest way, right out to the street. "You'll have to put your wedding dress on, and take my cape. I know it's too large, but there's nothing for it. Wait, wait: I want you to make your way to the exit on my instructions, and then back to tell me you've got it. Have a look outside, child; I don't know if it's day or night. Run along now, you can dress when we know what the time is."

She dashes away dutifully, then chirps, and rushes back and throws herself at me. "I'm afraid! Kiss me, kiss me!"

"Shhh, little one; I've given you the simplest way. You can do this. Kiss me; go now." Her kiss is like her first. The moment she leaves my sight, I'm seized with an irrational fear that that I'll never see her again; I must fight myself to keep from calling her back.

She returns in no time; she must've run the entire way. "I'm back!"

"There's my brave girl…I'm so proud of you, Christine."

"It's half-eight in the morning, Erik." She helps me to the bath. "Does it hurt?"

"Run it hot, Angel, and fetch me the scissors and good sharp knife from the kitchen."

"But a knife?" she winces.

"Don't worry, my Dear, Erik has been doing his own doctoring for a long time. Look, now; I want you to fetch these things from the chemist, just hand him the list and he'll see to it." I tell her where the money is kept. "And don't forget your wardrobe while you're up there," I smile. "Go now; dress and go."

Once Christine's gone, I commence digging at my leg to remove the stitches. It takes doubly long because I can't stop shivering, but my little wife would never be up to the task; who else is there? I work in increments for as long as I can bear. When it's finally open, I fall back in my own faint. When I wake, the water's cold and I have to run another bath. I've only settled in and caught my breath when Christine bustles in with the chemist's package.

"Christine, so quickly?"

"I didn't shop for myself, Erik; I told the chemist about your wound, and though he gave me everything you specified, he told me it needs a doctor!"

"No, Christine; no doctor. It isn't that bad."

"I knew you'd say that!" she shrieks, running from the room.

I dress the wound and slip back into bed. Every muscle aches and I'm freezing.

I've just closed my eyes when Christine reappears. "If you don't let me fetch a doctor, I'm leaving. I mean, leaving and not coming back!"

"Go then. No doctor. I'm too ill to argue with you; just go." I close my eyes again. No matter; I'll likely die anyway. I don't want her here for that.

Suddenly, she slips beneath the coverlet and curls up behind me. Her arm slips around my waist and curls up onto my chest. Her tears are chilly on my back. "Sleep, my Angel," she sniffles. I am still freezing, but I no longer care; Christine loves me.

-0-0-0-0-

I wake tied to a strange bed, screaming. "CHRISTINE!"

Instantly the face I adore fills my vision. "Ssshhh, Erik, I'm here. You were delirious, my love, you didn't know me!" She brushes my hair from my eyes.

"Where are we, Christine; we must go home!"

She kisses and pets me as if I was a child fresh from a nightmare. "Yes, we will, now that you're yourself. I had to bring you to the hospital, Erik," she confesses.

"LET ME UP!" I kick and rage.

"I'm sorry, I knew you'd be angry, but I thought you'd die!" She turns her back to me, as if I won't notice she's crying.

I reach for her, but am thwarted by the restraints. "CHRISTINE!" In my periphery I spy an official-looking type. "YOU! NURSE! LET ME UP! NOW, DAMN YOU!" She pales and scuttles away.

Christine rushes after her. "Please, he's not delirious; you see he knows me!"

"Clearly he's dangerous, Madame!" the nurse huffs.

My wife attacks the restraints herself, to little effect. I am less capable of controlling myself with every passing second. Then, what should I see appearing behind my wife, but that boy!

"Christine, let me," he suggests.

If I wasn't flailing like a madman previously, I begin to do so now. "Let you what?" I hiss.

He glances at me briefly, expressionless.

"Erik, let me–" Christine pleads. The boy reaches for her, as if to draw her away.

"GET YOUR HAND OFF HER SHOULDER!"

"I'm sending for the police!" the bitch nurse calls.

"Erik, stop!" Christine falls to her knees, overwhelmed.

The boy climbs up and plants his knee in the middle of my heaving chest. I glare daggers at him, silently calling down every pestilence I can imagine. "If they come and carry you off, it'll be the happiest day of my life," he whispers. Then, setting to work on my restraints, he addresses my wife. "Alright, Christine, if you can persuade him to COOPERATE long enough," he shakes his head in disbelief, "you'll be free to leave with your...loving husband." When he's freed me, he leaps clear. Stupid as he is, he knows that this tiny gesture in no way wipes our slate clean. Anyway, it isn't me he's here for. Christine presses my clothes into my hands as I rub my wrists. I'm impossibly stiff; everything aches.

The boy avails himself of the opportunity to draw Christine aside. "This–this madman is what you want? Tell me again why you won't–"

"Raoul, please, not now, not here–"

"–come with me while we have the chance?

"Let me get him home, just let me see him settled–"

"And then what? You mean to say he'll just let you leave when he's well and strong again? Christine, he'll live; he'll make his way home! Come away, Christine!"

I step to Christine's side. "I'm sufficiently well and strong to kill you where you stand if you don't give way. Now."

Immediately Christine presses close to me; but she does so for his protection, I see that much. "You mustn't mistreat him, Erik; Raoul brought you here. I had no one else to ask for help–"

I turn icy eyes one her. "You brought him to my lair? You led him to my home?" I demand, my gut churning.

"I couldn't carry you out, Erik; you couldn't walk, you couldn't–" I see no love for me on Christine's face; only fear of the monster. She'd say anything to protect her little man.

I throw her away from me unconcerned; I know Prince Charming won't let her fall. Exiting the room without a backward glance, I gain the stairway unseen.

I can hear Christine until I make the street. "ERIK! Raoul, let me go! EEEERRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIKKKKKK!"


	7. Chapter 7

Immediately I return home, I don work clothes and proceed to completely obliterate the passageway whereby Christine betrayed my home to her lover. I will neither rest nor eat until it's seen to. Yes; my very life does depend upon it.

I have no time to think of Christine until I wake from exhausted slumber. The fragrance of her hair lingers on the pillowcase. I remember everything: the day she came to the opera, a frightened little orphan; the day I first spoke to her; her first touch, tiny fingers burning me through my gloves. The funny little dimple which appears over her left brow when she is irritated; the way she coos at the sight of an especially luscious chocolate; the unqualified thrill of singing with her onstage; the taste of her tears. I take the pillow into my arms as if it was my precious Christine and weep.

I spend the day wracked with guilt for allowing my pride and rage to get the better of me and abandoning Christine to that sniveling, perfumed fop. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her, but first I must rescue her yet again. I hope she has not come to grief–I have lost track of time somewhat, but I believe it has been two days since I left her.

At dusk I venture above with my sword, a short Persian dagger which I find handy in a pinch, and my lasso. My intention is to carry Christine off without being discovered, but in any case, I will carry her off if I have to rouse and kill the entire household.

On the ride to Chagny, I meditate on my fury at the hospital. I wonder if my temper is getting worse as I age, or if it is just this tiresome man-child that sends me round the bend. Sometimes all I do is think of him, and I feel myself losing control. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect my sanity had deserted me. Still, I must do better than I have done of late; after all, I'm a husband now, I must consider Christine.

They are just finishing dinner when I arrive at Chagny. I make a quick reconnaissance of the house and wait for things to settle down for the night. The place is posh, I must admit, but nowhere near the earthly paradise that our home will be once it's complete. I make a mental note to take up the subject of our new home with Christine again soon. No doubt she'll be disconcerted after this second rescue, but once she realizes she's safe with her loving husband she'll soon be herself again. Then we can begin plans for our new life in earnest.

The house is darkening, particularly downstairs. Another quick pass around the house reveals two sets of windows on the second floor that I must explore. Fortunately, Chagny is an ornate chateau and will be easily scaled. I feel like D'Artagnan from Dumas' book, oozing gallantry. I pull myself up to the window and crouch relatively comfortably on some gingerbread. I peer into the window and almost cry out for my luck. I see some of Christine's clothing inside the wardrobe across the room. I am about to climb down and wait for her light to go out, when I hear her voice.

"Yes?"

"Christine, may I come in?"

"No, Raoul. Go away!" That's my precious bride.

"I just want to talk," he whines. _Liar_!

"I remember the last time we talked in my room. No."

"Christine, I won't do anything you–"

"No, you won't! I'm married now, Raoul."

"Christine, let me in!" he demands hotly. "He left you, Christine! You nearly threw yourself out the window after him, and he was completely unmoved by your cries! Christine!"

"No! Don't say that!" He's made her cry. I begin to tremble with rage.

"You promised me, Christine, remember? You promised that you'd come back to me if I helped you. Well, I did, and now you're here. Christine, you've got to put him behind you–for good, this time."

"I didn't promise you," she sobs. "I promised you I'd think about it!"

"He's a madman. I can't let you leave here and just give yourself to a madman, Christine!"

"He's my husband before God, Raoul. Please, stop saying he's a madman. He would never hurt me!"

"No doubt you thought he'd never leave you, either, until the other day! What happens when you're trapped in that…sewer with him and he finally goes completely mad and attacks you?"

"Oh, Raoul, I'm so tired! Please let me be," she pleads.

"Christine, just let me hold you."

"No, no! Go away! Please, please go away!" Her weeping turns muffled. In my mind's eye I can see her collapsing onto the bed.

I hear him thump–his fist, likely, against the door. Then quiet, except for my little Christine's tears. I long to go to her now, but best I wait and execute my original plans. There is nothing for it but to wait until the small hours. I slip down the façade, into the garden, and secrete myself in a hedgerow for a nap.

When I wake, I suspect it is about 3, judging by the moon. I glide silently into the front door and up the stairs. First thing upstairs, I look in on my angel. She is sleeping peacefully. I will let her be for a few minutes; just one thing to see to first.

I locate Chagny's room and leave him a note on the pillow where he wishes Christine's head would lay.

_Dear Comte, _

I have been and gone tonight. I stood at your bedside and watched you, peaceful and beautiful in sleep. I could have strangled the life from you as you slept. If you never see her again, you will live a long and healthy life. If you trouble her in any way, I will visit you again as you sleep; only this time, I shall not pass over.

The Angel of Death

I return to the room where my bride sleeps. I pack as much of her clothing as I can in the carpet bag I find at the bottom of the wardrobe. I move to the bed and look down at her. Her skin is luminous in the moonlight. For a fleeting moment, I think of leaving her here: in this beautiful house, in this beautiful bed, to have a beautiful life with the beautiful boy. But no…I shall give her a more beautiful life, and more love than he ever could. I press my lips to her forehead reverently.

"Christine…" I whisper in her ear.

She comes awake slowly. As her eyes adjust to the moonglow, she gasps and begins to cry softly against my neck. "No; I'm dreaming," she sighs.

"Ssshhh, my Dear. Erik is here to bring you home. It is no dream," I comfort her. I wrap her cloak around her and bear her silently from the house. She is weightless as a doll, nestled against me on the ride back to the city. She dozes off in my arms, and never wakes, even as I move through the caverns. As I remove her cloak and tuck her into our own welcoming bed, she stirs slightly, and her precious brows knit in irritation. "Don't touch me, Raoul. I dreamed of Erik; he's coming for me."

"Angel, it is your own Erik; you are safe at home."

"Erik," she sighs dreamily. "I'm safe at home." She enfolds my neck, refusing to let me go. Achingly slowly, I manage to stretch out, fully clothed, beside her. Finally, neck, back and legs knotted and cramped, I drift off to blessed sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, I awake to Christine's musical voice.

"Erik? Your leg, are you alright?" The eyes of an angel; so full of love and concern. I stroke her silken cheek.

"Of course, my Angel. I am perfect, now you're here."

She casts her eyes down quickly; sadly, perhaps. "Erik…" she slips her delicate hand into mine. Her cheeks flush and her eyes flutter rapidly. I think she may cry, but she leans forward and kisses me sweetly. "Erik, when you were hurt…I was all alone, I didn't know where to go, what to do! I told Raoul that if he helped me, I would…I told him I would go back to him. I tried to get out of it later, I told him I would think about it–but when I first asked him for help, I promised him I would do anything if he would only get you to a hospital." Now she is crying softly. "Oh, if only you could realize how sick you were! I was terrified! I thought you would die, I had to do something!"

"Christine…are you saying that when you were with him just now…"

"No, no! I must go back to him! I promised him."

"You're not obliged to keep a promise you made under such duress, Christine! It was wrong for him to demand guarantees from you when you were in extremity."

"Erik, I agreed; for your life, I did it happily!"

My heart is entombed in ice. She traded her love for my life? But, why would I live without her?

"You don't love him, Christine, you don't want to go back to him. Do you? Do you love him?"

She leaps from the bed and buries her face in her hands. "I don't know! Erik! When I'm with you, when you sing to me, I think I know, and then Raoul tells me that I belong to him, and it's wrong that I came with you, and I get so confused! I'm so tired of feeling confused!"

I am trembling inside, but I struggle to appear calm and confident to Christine. I know that she draws strength from my conviction. "Christine, I'm your husband. If you're confused, you should let me guide you. It's my duty to help you decide what's best. Let me help you, Darling." I reach for her and she comes into my arms easily. I caress her slowly, gently. "Whatever you want, Christine," I begin to sing to her. "Just tell me; I will let you go, if it is what you want. Tell me, Christine."

She says nothing. She touches my face as if it was a precious jewel; kisses my forehead, eyes, cheeks, lips, as tears slip from her eyes.

"Shall I love you?" I sing. "Do you want me? I want you, Christine. If only you could see inside my heart, Angel." I take her gently. She closes her eyes and raises her hips for me. "You want me, too; you see? You love me, Christine." Her hands slide under my shirt, stroking my back, pressing me close as her need increases. She hooks her legs around mine; whimpers, frustrated. "What is it, my Angel?"

"Closer," she whispers.

I bring her near the pinnacle once, twice.

"Please," she moans.

"Christine, don't leave me," I beg. I have neither pride nor shame; I only know I must keep her. I kiss her and my tears mingle with hers. "You love me. Say you love me."

"Erik, I do love you."

"Say you'll stay with me."

"I will; I'll stay."

Now she's said what I want to hear, I'll give her what she needs. I drive deeply, stroke harder. Her fulfillment milks mine from me.

I know she is mine, and I _shall_ keep her.

Christine sleeps again, but I lie awake, thinking of our future. We are cursed with Chagny. My serenity shatters as I think of him abusing her gentle trust yet again. She turned to him as the only friend she had, and all he could think of was his base satisfaction and his animal lust. And he dares to call _me_ the monster! _I worship her! _

-0-0-0-0-

Later, I compose and Christine putters about, unpacking her things. When she pauses to listen to what I'm creating, she smiles. There is nothing in the world I need; my wife is here, and she is smiling. We finish dinner just past nine and go above for a walk in our beloved city.

"Christine, my love, I think we should take our wedding trip. What do you say to Italy?"

Her hand squeezes mine reflexively. "Erik, I...Italy is so far from home," she worries.

I slip my arm around her shoulders to reassure her."I will be right by your side, every moment; I promise."

"I get frightened when I'm alone," she reminds me.

"Yes, I know; I won't leave you, Christine. So many beautiful things to see; Michelangelo's works in Florence and Rome; the Medici palace; the canals in Venice; perhaps we'll even see the Pope, would you like that?"

She nods. I watch her eyes as she warms to the idea. They dance and sparkle, but still there is something…a cloud which interrupts the sunshine of Christine's happiness.

"Alright then, I'll see to it tomorrow. You'll want to shop for some traveling clothes. We'll come upstairs after breakfast."

That night, Christine sleeps on my shoulder as effortlessly as a newborn. I must make her every waking moment as serene as her dreams are now.

Every time she thinks of that boy, I know it. I can see and feel him between us. How can her thoughts turn to him, when I've given her everything? How can she doubt our love? How can she permit the memory of a childish infatuation to poison our life? _How_?

I must help her to eradicate his memory. He will haunt us forever so long as we are here. I must build Christine her castle and remove her from this place. Should we leave Paris? Leave France?

But really, it is _he _who should go.


	9. Chapter 9

Christine and I spend three months in Italy. My little wife is not an intrepid traveler. She succumbs easily to changes in diet, sleeps fitfully, and will not suffer even a moment out of my sight.

However, Italy is a beautiful, romantic country, and it is a delight to open Christine's mind to it. In spite of her discomfort, she loves our wedding trip. She tells me so, and it shows. She adores the Venetian canals, particularly in the moonlight. She might have stayed in Venice forever, except for the Venetians' penchant for mask-wearing. I quite enjoy it; people roaming everywhere after dark, wearing masks and getting into mischief, but oddly, they seem to frighten Christine.

Museums abound in Italy, and Christine is enchanted by them. She is childlike in her excitement, catching my hand and pulling me from room to room, unable to decide which is her favorite. I purchase copies of her favorite works in each museum; she limits herself strictly to two selections from each.

She is overcome with emotion as our carriage approaches Rome. We go to the Sistine Chapel daily. Christine gazes at the ceiling for hours, and her God rains grace down on her. My blessing is watching Christine; she is my prayer. In an audience, Christine receives a Papal blessing. She is transported by this; she believes it to be a good omen.

Always, there is the opera. In each city, we attend every production we can. The music carries us, joins us; the music is ours alone. There is no describing what happens between us when we enter the music.

She continues to shy from my touch unless I approach her with song, but once she warms to me, she is passionate, even wanton in my hands. I wonder how long she will continue to insist that I force pleasure on her. I know she wants me as a woman wants a man, but she is free neither to express it to me nor to admit it to herself. I don't know how to help her. As for me, Christine has become a drug. I recall the first morning of our marriage; I wanted to take her again, but stopped myself, ashamed of what she might think of her husband. That man is gone forever. It is as if the satisfaction itself feeds my hunger. I must have her morning and night, and the mere sight of her inflames me. I draw her into darkened alleys, take her in carriages, theater boxes, even public gardens. She is horrified, of course, until our dance is begun. Then, I think there is a bit of the drug about it for her, too.

We end our trip abruptly in Florence. One day, Christine awakens homesick and depressed, and will not be comforted. "I want to go home!" she mourns, and home we go, directly.

-0-0-0-0-

I have monitored Christine's periods of indisposition, and I suspect her condition before she does. This does not surprise me; in fact, I rely on her naiveté to bring my plan to a successful conclusion. A few years ago, abortions were easily obtained throughout Europe. However, as I make my inquiries, I learn that of late, they've been outlawed virtually everywhere. A slight bump in my road; nothing more. I must find a sympathetic, discreet midwife who understands the importance of not upsetting Christine with things she can't understand.

Before we were married, I longed for children. I dreamt of flawless, pudgy babies basking in Christine's love. But now, I know that I won't willingly share her love with anyone, even someone we make together. I thought I was obsessed with Christine during the years I watched her, sang to her, unseen and unnamed. No; if that was obsession, what is this? I thrive on her attention. How can I allow her to parse it between me and a child? I would wither and die, as would any untended garden. I have waited too long to have her to myself; I refuse to pass another lonely day. I've already borne enough loneliness for several lifetimes. Now that I possess her completely, I will not permit even a fleeting thought of anything but me to penetrate her mind.

No matter what I must do, Christine will bear no children.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine putters about the lair, humming.

"You're happy to be home," I remark.

"Yes," she replies softly.

"Shall Erik take his little wife on another holiday next year, or does she never wish to stray from home again?"

She considers for a moment. "I enjoyed it very much, once I was accustomed to it, so long as you're with me. I like traveling with you; you know so much about everything…my teacher," she murmurs, eyes downcast.

"When you speak to me thus, I think of many things I would teach you," I confess, as desire flares again.

"Oh, no!" she cries, "I never meant–" she despairs, lost for words. I must stifle the urge to laugh at my still-blushing bride; she would not understand my amusement, and I would never wish to hurt her.

"Come, my blameless Angel, of course not." I embrace her gently. "Do you really suppose your Erik knows so little of his Christine?" I feel her begin to relax in my arms. "And even if you intended to be provocative, there is no need for embarrassment between us, is there?" She shudders from my breath in her ear. My hand makes its way under her dressing gown. "Is there, Christine?"

"No," she sighs, but still I can sense that she is troubled by what I may think of her. I must show her how she pleases me in everything she does. How long before she can believe in my endless devotion?

I guide her back several steps and ease her down on the table.

"Not here…"

"Of course here, Darling; why not? There is no one here but you and I," I remind her. I guide her legs around me and ease inside her slowly. Sometimes when I am driven to take her suddenly, she squeals if she is not yet ready.

"But…it's the kitchen," she complains.

"Indeed? And you do realize that it would be perfectly acceptable if I should require you to parade about all day in your corset and hose?

"Erik, you wouldn't shame me that way!"

"No shame, Christine. Hush now; let Erik finish."


	10. Chapter 10

It is more trouble than I imagined it would be to locate a midwife; rather, an accommodating midwife. Finally I locate Madame Cisse. I understand almost immediately that we shall be able to work together. I stress to her my inviolate requirements of privacy and discretion; she assures me that such is often the case with her clientele, and that I may confide in her completely. Naturally I have no intention of doing any such thing.

I explain to Madame that while I do not believe that Christine herself suspects anything yet, my meticulous record-keeping indicates that a certain event is overdue. Given the circumstances, one draws the natural conclusion. Has the girl mentioned feeling ill, or queer in any way, she asks. I reply that she has not.

I attempt to convey the delicate nature of the situation to Madame; that while my little wife is by no means stupid, she has led a closely circumscribed life, and I desire above all else to protect her from any upset. I tell her I fear that, should the child be defective, Christine would never understand the necessity of allowing Nature to have its way; nor could I permit her to bear the burden of raising a monstrous child, after witnessing my dear mother's anguish. Of course, Madame understands perfectly, as I knew she would.

Yet, even knowing what my progeny must surely be, Christine would never agree to a merciful termination. Ensconced in her perfect world of romantic fantasy, she is convinced that my curse will not be passed to our offspring. Demonstrating to Madame how moved I am, I confess that the blame is entirely mine for wishing to shield her from pain and sadness. I know I should not have taken such a blameless, innocent soul for my wife, but what could I do? I ask. I adore her, you see, I cannot help myself. The child confessed her love and I was lost. Madame Cisse assures me that I am a generous and conscientious man, and that any woman would be blessed to have such a husband.

How I hate dissembling to my little darling, Madame Cisse, I cry. Come, my son, she comforts me, your only thought is to protect her. We shall do all we can to accomplish our end without falsehood.

As we travel through the caverns to my lair, Madam offers to prepare contraceptive suppositories which have proven effective. She advises that while nothing but continence is perfectly reliable, it is best to take some precaution, as termination is more taxing to the woman. Alarmed, I protest that I cannot put Christine in jeopardy. Madame explains the entire process to me, putting my misgivings to rest. She will prepare a tea of various herbs for Christine to take; likely once should suffice, since we are applying the remedy so early. The tea will bring on a more copious flow than normal; Christine may experience some discomfort, but nothing excessive.

Christine is immediately distressed to see I have brought a guest home. She is frightened of strangers. Once I introduce her, Madame takes my Angel in hand, guiding her to the sofa.

"Now, you are a married woman, dear. It is up to you to take note of your body's rhythms. You must observe your monthly courses, if they come on time and so on. It is not your good husband's responsibility, child." Christine is mortified that a stranger should speak so frankly to her, but Madame Cisse comforts her like a jovial auntie. "Come, girl, it is nothing to be bashful about; it is the way of men and women!" she chuckles. "Here, your husband has sent for me because he fears something has disturbed your flowers. I want to have a look at you, and then I will prepare a tea to set you to rights. In the future, you must tell your good husband if something is missing, hm?"

Christine nods, having warmed slightly to Madame's forthright, maternal ways. But when Madame directs her to disrobe in the bedroom, it is too much; she faints dead away. So much the better; Madame conducts a hasty examination and confirms my suspicions. She heads to the kitchen to prepare the tea as I revive my little wife.

"Erik, I can't! Don't make me, please!" she wails.

"No, Angel. It is past now; Madame is preparing your tea. But it is rather silly, you must admit. She is a woman like you, after all," I suggest.

Christine is approaching a wild-eyed terror; I drop the subject and sing her a folk song which has calmed her since childhood. She takes her tea dutifully, and I tuck the coverlet around her. A little nap will help her nerves.

Madame and I conclude our business and I lead her back to the street. We will meet tomorrow at half-six so I can inform her of any progress. She is a likable enough woman; I hope she does not turn scheming on me.

Christine awakens from her nap refreshed, but immediately she turns peevish. My Angel has a fearful temper when she is so inclined. Quite a paradox in such a timid girl, but it has always been so, since she was little. By dinner, I cannot stand it; my nerves are wrecked.

"Christine, I will be so grateful if you will tell me what is troubling you."

"Nothing."

"You'll forgive me, but I refuse to believe it."

She slams her fork down with such intensity that it startles me. "I don't understand why you think it's necessary to…to pry into my…personal business! I want you to stop it, right now!"

"Personal business?"

She goes scarlet, sputters without actually uttering a word. I shake my head, baffled. "You know what I mean!" she accuses.

"I do not."

Her heavenly eyes narrow to slits. She's even angrier now; she believes I'm being deliberately obtuse. God help me, she's angry with me!

"What Madame spoke of today. You know," she whispers.

"Oh. You mean your…indisposition," I guess. Her color tells me I am correct. "Christine, it is no great secret. I can assure you that men do understand something of their wives' biology."

"It's none of your affair!" She stomps from the table, slamming the bedroom door so ferociously, my ears ring.

What I would not give for Christine to have had the benefit of an older woman's guidance. I cannot abide her being cross with me, regardless of the reason. I've lost all appetite, and I feel myself getting shaky inside. I long to rush in, fall at her feet and beg forgiveness where no wrong was committed, only to feel the warmth of her love again. I push my plate away and lay my head down. What a miserable creature I am; what can I do if Christine is displeased with me?

"Erik?" She looks so fragile, standing in the bedroom doorway. I am at her side instantly. She reaches for my hand and rests her head on my shoulder. Oh, bliss; am I forgiven?

"Erik, my tummy hurts."

"Come, let me put you to bed, my Treasure."

"Stay with me," she pleads, my little girl again.

Christine passes a restless night, her discomfort coming in waves. When the pain is at its worst, she squeezes my hand with surprising strength. Her bleeding commences in the middle of the night, and by eight the next morning, she is able to fall asleep in relative comfort. I must curl up with her; each time I attempt to leave, she clutches me tighter and fusses wordlessly. I think this is a good sign; perhaps she is not angry with me anymore, but I still cannot sleep. Not until she says she loves me.


	11. Chapter 11

Christine awakens feeling much better, and with a good appetite. I would like to be able to report to Madame Cisse about the bleeding, but not enough to remind Christine how furious she was at me yesterday. Madame is pleased with my report and advises that I should let Christine be for several weeks at least. Depending, she says. Depending upon what? This uncertainty is madding; how can I know that Christine is well? Don't fret so, dear man; let yourself be guided by your little darling, Madame counsels me.

My angel is herself in no time, but I am wretched until I am certain that she is unaffected by the ordeal. Then time stops until I can love her again. While I've suffered solitary torments for decades, the forbidden fruit has never been as close as it is now.

Weeks pass; three, four, five, but Christine gives no sign that she misses my attentions. If she was not so obviously healthy, I would not be troubled, but as it is, I fear she will never admit her desires to me. She continues to worry that I will consider her a bad girl. Perhaps she needs still more time to feel completely comfortable with me, but it breaks my heart to think she has so little confidence in my love. Much as I had wanted to leave the initiative to Christine, I come to realize that I must seize it myself. I am dying for her touch. Poor child, I know she suffers, too, waiting in silence for her husband to approach her. I hope she does not think I've grown tired of her, or that somehow she has become unattractive to me.

I decide a romantic evening is in order; I will court her as I did before she was my precious wife. I prepare lamb with a burgundy and rosemary glaze that Christine especially likes, potatoes with leeks, and bread of course. I have never been able to master pastry, so I visit a bakery for dessert. I choose a fruit tart that makes Christine's eyes shine with delight. When she praises me, I am positive that I could live on it and never eat again.

After dinner, we dance just as people do at fine balls. I have devised a way to make the piano play without me; not many tunes, because it is a time consuming process, but it's alright. Christine's laughter is music enough to brighten my cave.

When the evening is late, I give her a bottle of bath salts, lilac for a change, and a new bed gown of palest blue. I would have run the bath, but I don't want to remind her–I don't want to remember–the first night I ran the bath, and hurt her. She sparkles and flies away to soak. I do the cleanup and go to bed with my book. Eventually, Christine pirouettes from the bath, proud of herself in her new gown.

"Pretty as a princess."

"Thank you," she smiles shyly, slipping into bed.

I kiss her hand. She smells divine. "I've missed you, Angel," I whisper, reaching for her.

"No, no, no!" she shrinks from me as if I was a monster. "Stop!"

I am utterly baffled; I only wanted to kiss her. "Christine, what is wrong?"

"I…I don't feel well! Yes, I don't…I don't feel well yet." Her eyes are huge. It almost seems she is afraid of me.

"What is it, Angel? You've said you feel fine for weeks, each time I ask you."

"Well, I do feel fine, mainly. But…" she wrings her hands.

I am beside myself with worry. "Please, Christine, won't you calm yourself?" I reach for her hand, but she snatches the coverlet up to her neck protectively. I prop my pillows up and settle back against the headboard. "Please tell me what troubles you," I sigh. Though I have moved away from her, she is still fidgeting.

"I feel better in the daytime. At night…I mean, at bedtime…I don't feel so well anymore."

"I wish you'd told me, Darling. I'll fetch Madame Cisse first thing."

"No!"

"Christine, come along now, ignoring your health for the sake of this misplaced modesty is absurd. I'm sorry to have to scold you, Angel, but you must understand the gravity of the situation. If you are unwell, you cannot remain silent and hope it will go away." I hate speaking to her sternly, but what else can I do?

"I'm alright, I tell you," she shakes her head. "I don't need her!"

"Darling, a moment ago you told me you don't feel well at bedtime. Now you tell me you're alright. Which is it, Christine?"

"I…want some tea!" She scurries away.

Oh, god. For some reason, I feel weighted down, as if piles of thick blankets were draped about my shoulders. A pounding headache has sprung up from nowhere. Perhaps I should drop the conversation tonight and just fetch the midwife without a word in the morning. Sometimes I worry for Christine's sanity. She seems so fragile emotionally; the slightest thing may send her into a blind panic or hysteria. And then again, it may not; I can never predict it until it's upon me.

Christine returns with tea for us both. We sip in silence; the chasm yawns between us. This is killing me; I must try another approach. "Angel, you know how long I've been alone. Now you've come, and you fill every dark corner of my heart with sunshine. Surely you have an idea of how precious you are to me. Do you realize how I worry when you are not well? Please, tell your little husband what he must do for you."

She says nothing. When she finishes her tea, she turns away and settles down for sleep, without a word. Incredulous, I take her by the shoulder and make her face me. She squeals, horrified, as I expected she would.

"Christine, did you hear me? You will tell me what troubles you!" My stomach churns at having to speak crossly to her.

"Why must you always spoil everything?" she demands angrily. "Why?" She breaks into sobs and hides her face.

"Christine, I don't und–"

"It was a lovely evening! I enjoyed myself so much, but then you had to spoil it with–" she buries her face in the pillow.

I can barely catch my breath. Eventually, I manage to gasp an apology. I stumble into some clothing. I need to walk the caverns so I can weep freely. I don't know how to take this, how to begin to understand.


	12. Chapter 12

I stare at the comforting blackness all around me. Darkness and the sounds of these vaults are my friends. Rats scuttling, water dripping; these comfort me. I can think when I am here.

When I first sit down I am beside myself. I do not know what Christine means by what she has said, but she is displeased with me, and this is enough to send me into irrational flights of fancy. I must calm myself or I'll never make sense of her outburst.

I make so many false starts. Just when I think I've settled enough to review the events of the evening calmly, I think of how happy Christine has been these past weeks. Then I hear her shouting 'Why must you always spoil everything?' and I feel sick all over again.

She's right; I'm a monster. I've been a selfish beast, expecting the poor child to accommodate my every whim. As if she should bear the burden of my animal nature and compensate me for decades of loneliness with the sacrifice of her precious flesh.

I've been unable to see it. I search my soul mercilessly; if it happens that I am blinded by brutish lust, I will lie down right here and die of shame. But when I examine the depths of my heart, I see love there, not carnal lust. It's true Christine has suffered and I have been blind, just the same, but I know that it is out of love that I plead for so much of her.

I am not by nature a moderate man; I recognize this. Whatever I feel or do, I feel and do with tremendous ferocity. Christine must have been in hell on our wedding trip, trying to be a good wife to me while I pawed at her endlessly. Then blessed relief for those few weeks. No wonder she lashed out as she did, terrified that her ordeal would begin again. I must find a way to learn moderation.

I weep again; I had thought there were no more tears in me. When I am dry, I realize I cannot delay any longer. If I do not return soon, Christine will panic. I have no idea what I will say to her, and I am so ashamed I don't know how I will face her, let alone speak a word.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine is reading when I arrive home. She rises when she sees me, twirling a handkerchief between her fingers. It seems she cannot bear to look at me. Well, I can hardly blame her for that. All the words I've rehearsed as I walked home vanish from my mind.

I fall at Christine's feet. Kissing the hem of her dress, I swear that I will never lay hands on her again if only she will forgive me and love me. Presently I feel her hands on my back, soothing me as if I was a child. She leads me to bed and tucks me in with a glass of wine.

"Sleep, Erik; you were walking those corridors all night, weren't you? Sleep."

"Don't leave me, Christine; please give me a chance. I will change; I will do anything you ask."

"I will be here when you wake up," she promises me.

-0-0-0-0-

She is there, reading again. Immediately, I set to work on supper. I am still uneasy about meeting her eyes; afraid I may not find love in them. We eat in relative silence. Christine compliments me on the meal; she seems to be trying to put me at ease. After supper, she takes my hand and makes me sit with her.

"We are married in the Church, Erik." I think she means to comfort me by saying this. "I went to confession this morning," she continues. "Anger is one of the seven deadly sins. The priest says I must learn to respect you."

The words fall out of me in a jumble, like potatoes from a barrel. "I'm sorry; I know I've mistreated you, Christine. I didn't realize until you said, but I swear to you I didn't mean it. I would never hurt you! I love you, Christine, I don't know how to love you properly, but I can learn. You can show me."

Her eyes are soft. She touches my temple, just where the mask meets the hairline. My dead flesh warms under her fingertips.

"I don't want to cry anymore," I confess.

"Don't cry."

-0-0-0-0-

We lie in bed staring at the ceiling, not touching.

"You may touch me, Erik," she whispers. She reaches for my hand under the covers.

"Christine, you said–"

"I'm your wife," she interrupts. "The Church--"

"It doesn't matter what the church has to say about it, Christine; I don't want to do anything you don't want. Honestly, I never did want to."

"What would you do? If I said…" She sounds frightened.

_I would ache for you every moment._ "I would respect your wishes, Christine; what else could I do?"

She is silent for a long time; perhaps ten minutes. Finally, she murmurs "Good night, Erik."

"Good night, Christine. I love you."

She drops off to sleep with her hand in mine.


	13. Chapter 13

A final warning to my dear readers: This is a tale of _madness_, and this is where it begins to get a bit untidy. If you've found it too dark so far, you may wish to depart now, before it gets darker still. The rest of you, grab your cuddlies and hang on.

love, Weez.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine brightens as she realizes that I will keep to my word and not press her; eventually, she permits me to kiss her again. Life is delightful; our home is full of her song and laughter. She smiles and praises me, tells me how kind I am to her.

I return to former expedients to relieve my desire, but they quickly become insufficient. The ache is removed temporarily, but the longing increases daily. It is the touching of tender flesh, her sighs, her fragrance that I hunger for. Before I knew a woman's touch, it was easy to pretend I was not human, but now I know that I am a man. At first, I tell myself that it is enough for me to have her happy with me, and in many ways, it is true. But lying next to Christine in the middle of the night, I sink to unparalleled depths of loneliness.

My sleep becomes more tormented, so I return to prowling the opera house and roaming the shadowy streets. Inevitably, a little blonde girl studying for the ballet attracts my attention. Aside from the blonde curls and the glowing blue eyes, she bears no resemblance to Christine, but the longer I watch her, the less it matters. I cannot make my beloved wife suffer for my animal nature; I have sworn to her. But someone must bear it. I am hungry for a girl–any girl.

I bring the girl down below the opera house. She pleads with me to set her free, promising that she will say nothing. I tell her that I have no wish to hurt her, but sadly, I know that I will. I apologize, and tell her as gently as I can what I want from her. She falls to her knees, screaming and crying. She is most unattractive this way, and I find myself losing patience. I hiss at her to compose herself, or I will not trouble so much over her comfort. It is sufficient to stifle her wailing; I can tolerate the odd snuffle.

I spread my cape on the floor for her comfort and tell her to remove her clothes. She falls once again to pleading for her release. Remove your clothing or I will do it for you, I warn. The child trembles so violently that she can scarcely remove her clothes; again my patience wanes, and I rip her undergarments away. No shrieking, I remind her; lie down and be silent.

As I cover her body with my own, she stifles her sobs. She is so much tinier than Christine. Feeling some sympathy for the terrified child, I relent somewhat.

"Listen, child, if you must squeal at the outset, it is alright."

"Please no, please no, please no." She repeats it as if in prayer. It is difficult to accomplish the connection; she emits horrific screams, swearing that I am killing her. The screaming puts me off my game a bit. My anger flares and I scream back at her to be silent.

She settles; it becomes easier. She is soft and warm; her fragrance is not Christine's, but it is the fragrance of a living girl. It is enough. I finish with her and press her close, catching my breath.

Finally, she whispers "Will you let me go now?" Originally, I intended to, but I cannot after all. She has seen the Opera Ghost; there can be no doubt that it was the Opera Ghost that violated her.

"I am sorry, child. I thought I could, but–"

"I'll tell no one, as God is my witness! I beg of you!" Her eyes are wild with terror as she tries to scramble away. I trap her against me and snap her neck effortlessly. I dress her as best I can, and bear her stealthily up to the furnaces. I do not want her found; I do not know why, but this crime is different.

As I set her into the furnace, I realize that I did not learn her name.


	14. Chapter 14

As I approach home after disposing of the girl, I sense movement. I make my way carefully, skeptical that someone could have actually gotten past me. Oh, but I was distracted; I'd forgotten. I cannot allow myself to become careless, now that I've got Christine to protect.

I see more clearly now, just ahead. "Christine."

"Erik? Erik!" Her bare feet on the stone floor, coming closer. "Where were you?" She rushes into my arms, terrified.

"Christine, my Angel, what has Erik told you? You mustn't wander alone in the caverns, remember." I stroke her back through the thin nightdress. I have not held her like this in a long time. It is fortunate I used the girl, or it would be hard to be a good husband now, close as she is.

"I heard screaming!" she cries. "I'm afraid. Hold me, please."

I guide her back to bed. "No, my Love, it was a nightmare; nothing more. Come, you're trembling. Lie down, now; Erik's here."

"Where were you?" she cries.

"I was walking, Angel. I was restless and didn't want to disturb your slumber. So you see, I know there's nothing out there. You just had a fright."

"Of course I had a fright!" she scolds. "I told you not to leave me! How many times have I told you?"

"Here, don't cry. Ssshhh. I'm sorry." I drop my cape and kick off my shoes.

Christine will not release me even to let me undress. "Hold me."

"Yes. It's alright now, hm?" She nods against my chest. I stroke her back and hum, and soon she is peacefully asleep.

I slip my hand under her nightdress onto her hip and ease Christine onto her back. She whimpers but does not wake. I push her nightdress up. I know I should stop, but I only want to look at her. That girl was not beautiful; she was not my exquisite Christine. This, what I see before me now, is beautiful. I touch her, before I even realize that I am doing so. When she shifts, I snatch my hand away like a thief. Ashamed, I replace her nightdress, slip my arm around her waist and close my eyes.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine comes awake crying; another nightmare, I assure her. "Hush, Angel; Erik is here. Christine is safe." Again I stroke her back and sing.

"Erik," she murmurs. She pulls my horrible face close to hers. "Kiss me." More kisses; hesitant, tender, questioning, ardent. Yes; she does love me! My heart is about to burst. She presses against me and offers her throat to my lips. Her fragrance envelops me. I shudder when I feel her hands on my shoulders.

Suddenly, Christine starts and shrinks. Even her scent retreats. Her hands fly to my chest, pushing me away. "Stop," she orders. "No more."

_But I am so cold, Christine. _"Please, just let me hold you."

She turns away, drawing the covers over her ears. I close my eyes and review my behavior to learn how I offended her, but I cannot find my mistake. Finally, I decide it is safe to cry, so long as I do it silently and don't wake Christine.

-0-0-0-0-

In the morning after breakfast, Christine tells me that I must not sing to her anymore. I nod dumbly and wander to the piano in a daze. My hand lifts the pen of its own accord and I follow my thoughts, shapeless shadows in a moonlit alley. What is left for us if we no longer sing? As it is, Christine barely speaks to me. No touch; no song; I will be caged, deafened, with the sight of her alone to sustain me. But I am already starving now.

I did not tempt her last night; Christine tempted herself. What she cannot admit to herself, she blames me for. My head aches and my chest is tight; I see Christine and the nameless girl, their bodies pieced together in mirror shards. Through a barrage of discordant noise, Christine calls to me. Struggling to the surface of consciousness, I attend to her voice.

"…you done to it? It's filthy," she complains, holding out my rumpled cape. "You dropped everything on the floor in a mess last night!"

I fly at her, snatching the cape away. She cringes and falls to the ground. Fury and anguish mingle; can she really fear that I would harm her? "What do you care? It's nothing to you!" I snarl. I toss the ruined cape into the lake and escape into the catacombs.

-0-0-0-0-

As I wander my theater, I learn the girl's name: Therese. Some think she may have run away; others cannot imagine why she would do so. I hear no one mention the Opera Ghost. I watch the performance from the flies; after it, I realize that I have been gone all day. I know that Christine will be frantic, but I am still angry with her. I haven't been this angry in a long time. I return home and Christine is past crying. She is angry, too.

"Where have you been all day? How dare you leave me again?"

I brush past her silently.

"Did you hear me? Erik!"

"Christine, I want to go to bed."

"Why did you leave me all day?" she demands, furious.

"Why? WHY? Honestly, Christine, I believe you are madder than I."


	15. Chapter 15

Christine returns from Mass. "You are still angry with me," she notes.

"I'm not angry with you anymore, Christine."

"Will you let me go now?"

"Why?" I demand. She is speechless. "You're my wife and I love you, Christine. I may not touch you, but I love you," I finish, acidly. She lowers her eyes. She knows she is not a good wife to me. "Why do you want to leave me, Christine? You no longer love your little husband?

"I love you," she admits, her shoulders drooping.

"What did you say? I cannot hear you." I approach her.

"I said I love you." She will not look at me; I understand.

"Why won't you let me be your lover, Christine?" I place my hands on her hips and draw her tightly against me. "Why will you deny your own desire, Angel?" I whisper.

"Don't," she whines.

"No," I answer blackly, shoving her away. "I won't."

-0-0-0-0-

I must find another woman. Christine and I drift through these rooms like sleepwalkers. I am lost. I don't know how to bring her back to me. I don't want to hurt any more girls, but it is not safe for Christine if I continue as I am. I feel angrier with each passing day. Where is the peace I felt sure to find if only my precious Christine was with me?

No more opera girls; I must haunt the alleys at night. If only I could pay a whore, but I am afraid of having my good money refused for a few moments' writhing in a dark corner. I watch lovers part reluctantly under a street lamp. I hear cats fight several yards over. I cannot do this! I fall to my knees, emptying my stomach. Weeping, I scramble to my feet and escape underground.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine squeezes my arm. "Erik?" She peers into the coffin. "Are you ill?"

"No."

She does not believe me and feels my forehead. "Do you want some wine?"

I nod.

"Shall I run you a bath? You got very dirty."

I nod again. She bustles back shortly with my wine. I disappear into the bath. When I emerge, Christine wants to know if I am hungry.

"No. I am going to bed."

She follows me, fretting and she climbs onto the bed. "Erik, I don't understand what is wrong," she says to my back.

"Why are you suddenly so solicitous for my welfare, Christine?" I ask wearily.

"It's not suddenly!" she replies petulantly.

"Oh no?"

"Be-because you're…my…husband." I can barely hear her. "You're still angry," she despairs.

"I'm not angry, Christine."

"What is it, then? I'm afraid of you," she whimpers.

"Christine…" I shake my head. I don't know how this has all become so difficult. It is as though each of us speaks and understands a different language. I turn, reaching out to her impulsively. Christine comes into my arms gratefully, needing comfort like a little child. She does not want me to touch her, but there is no one else. Perhaps I have watched and waited for Christine's moment of vulnerability; if so, I was unaware of doing so. One thing I know: now that it is here, I will seize the opportunity it offers. I kiss her neck; she squirms, but I hold her more tightly.

"You said you wouldn't unless I agreed," she reminds me.

"I intend to see that you agree this time. Don't you remember how you kissed me a fortnight ago when you had the night terrors? There was desire in your kiss."

"There was not," she insists.

"Yes, there was," I whisper. I begin removing her dress. "Look at how beautiful you are, Christine." I peel her garments away slowly. She permits it silently, lying frozen. "You should be kinder to me, Christine. I ask very little of you; do you realize that?"

"Yes," she whispers.

I begin touching Christine randomly, in a way that I hope is not threatening. "There is no shame in allowing your husband his privilege. It is right for you to enjoy my caresses. Ask the good father sometime, when you are in Church."

Christine emits a horrified squeal and pulls the covers up to her neck. "Don't mention the priest! Church! I'm…n-u-d-e." I cannot help laughing at her. Her eyes crackle; her lip juts out.

"Oh, my Angel, how charming your modesty is. Christine…" I reach for the covers. My eyes promise that there is no mockery in my laughter. Her anger drains away and she releases the covers. I move close and whisper "I won't mention it again in this room." She nods her approval. I kiss her as mildly as I can and cup her breast, barely touching her. She clutches fistfuls of my shirt. She pulls her lips free.

"Don't sing; you promised." She gazes up at me expectantly.

"No, I won't sing."

She opens her sweet lips for me and wraps her arms around my neck. "Take your clothes off," she whispers shyly.


	16. Chapter 16

Christine is transformed. Where I thought I would lead her with gentle persuasion, she pulls me insistently, urging me beyond imagination. My lack of understanding would be frightening if Christine permitted me a moment's thought. Finally, exhaustion overtakes us and we simply stop, unable to move sufficiently to arrange ourselves for sleep.

Later, I feel Christine slithering over my body and surmise that I am dreaming. No; I open my eyes and she smiles down at me, guiding my hands to her breasts. She seizes her pleasure from me; is she oblivious to my gaze as I marvel at her, or has her false modesty been scorched away? Ultimately, further satisfaction won, she permits me to sleep again.

I have no sense of time when I awake; unusual for me, but under the circumstances I am not surprised. Christine nuzzles; she is a faceless mass of tousled hair. She stretches out on top of me and kisses me. It is an extraordinary kiss; a woman's kiss. My amazement must show in my eyes, because her smile flickers and she bites her lip, apprehensive. I catch her head in my hands before she turns away.

"What has become of you?" I wonder. I kiss her passionately, willing her to understand that nothing is wrong. Her tongue darts into my mouth and her hands begin to roam my body. I bite her neck.

"I found your book," she confesses, arching her back.

"My book?"

She grunts in protest, forces my head back down to kiss her. "Sir Richard Burton. Is it alright? I just wanted something to read; I had no idea. I didn't know there were such books in all the world. At first, I put it right away, but I couldn't stop thinking about the pictures I'd seen," she confesses.

The thought of Christine paging through the Kama Sutra is stupefying. Motionless, I stare at her. "You read it?"

She nods, meeting my gaze unabashedly.

"What did you read?" I wonder aloud.

"All of it," she admits softly.

"Show me."

She thinks for a moment, then lies back, tucking her knees up to her chest. "The Position of the Wife of Indra?" she quotes, reaching out for me.

-0-0-0-0-

I steal from the bed when I know it is morning. Christine looks like a sleeping nymph; ineffably beautiful. I dress and head above ground to prepare a special meal for my beloved: buttery croissants, strawberry preserves, champagne, tea, and a perfect rose. I kiss my Angel's forehead and place the tray on her lap as she sits up.

"You won't eat, Erik?" she worries.

I shake my head, a lump already forming in my throat. "I have all I need," I croak.

"Ohhh," she sighs. She cups my horrible face in her hands as if it was a precious jewel and kisses me sweetly. I sit with her and we toast a new beginning. Christine slathers preserves onto a croissant and offers me a bite. Her simple gesture, cupping her hand under my chin in case I spill some, is achingly precious. Eventually, she finishes and I reach to remove the tray to the kitchen.

"Erik…Erik," she purrs, catching my sleeve. "Come back to bed…"

-0-0-0-0-

I stir, reaching for my Aphrodite, but the bed is cold and I come fully awake alone. Dejected, I listen. No sounds from the bath; no singing. I move slowly through our home, seeking a sign, but Christine is nowhere.

Suddenly, blind panic captures me. Could it be? Did I conjure Christine, piecing our life together from the rags of madness? Has she never been here at all?

I race to the wardrobe, reaching for the knob with trembling claws. I need only crack it open and spy Christine's humblest garment within to know that she is real, we are real. I will turn the knob and the faint lingering of her cologne on her clothing will ease my fractured mind.

_But if the wardrobe is empty…if the wardrobe is empty, what will become of me?_


	17. Chapter 17

I cannot open the wardrobe. I do not know how long I stand paralyzed, but eventually, I turn away. I rush up to the surface, hiding in dark places, hoping to catch a glimpse of Christine. I see merchants and children, women, police, but I see Christine nowhere.

As I turn to leave, I glimpse that boy's carriage across the square. I cannot see if he is within, nor can I spy him nearby, but an icy dart pierces my heart, simply by looking at the carriage with the Chagny crest on the door. I must go below; my heart is sick.

I had all but forgotten that he was in the world. For all our troubles, since returning from Italy, it has been only Christine and me. If she has thought of him, missed him and longed for him, she has never betrayed herself to me.

-0-0-0-0-

As I move into my home, I hear Christine humming. I dash to the bedroom door, unable to believe my ears–or even my eyes. I fall to my knees, throw my arms around her and sob like a child.

"Erik, what is it?" She kneels with me, clasping my hands within hers. Her eyes are all concern. "Won't you tell me what has happened?"

"You were gone, Christine," I pant. "I awoke and I was alone. It seemed as if you'd never been here at all."

Christine draws my arms about her. "Who sounds like a worried little wife now?" she giggles, pulling me down on the carpet. "I went to church, but I am here now. Touch me and you'll see I'm real," she whispers. Her breath in my ear makes me shudder.

"Did you see anyone?"

"Sometimes the same people are at church; is that what you mean? Erik, help me out of my dress," she orders impatiently.

"I mean…I mean I went looking for you, and I saw that boy's carriage in the square. I saw it, Christine!" I cry, tortured by suspicions. Christine backs away, sitting up as she clasps her bodice shut.

"I went to church." She repeats flatly.

"You never saw him there?"

She shakes her head forlornly.

"You're sad because you realize you missed him!" I accuse. She climbs to her feet and starts from the room. I catch her up in my arms roughly, shaking her. "You missed your rendezvous!"

Christine rests her head on my shoulder. "Why will you do this? You think I went to meet Raoul? Look at me, tell me you have no faith in me," she begs.

I cannot look at her; I am too ashamed. I begin to tremble and shake my head. At last, I murmur "No, Christine, I have faith in you."

-0-0-0-0-

I do have faith in Christine. Our life together is more perfect than I ever dreamed it would be, filled with Christine's smiles and song. I retrieve the house plans; it is a relief to discover that the sight of the plans no longer upsets her, and we agree to begin searching for the ideal spot for our home.

For all our happiness, the boy still haunts me. Perhaps he no longer haunts her, but I cannot forget his proximity, or his vow to kill me.

-0-0-0-0-

"Why are you brooding tonight, my Angel?" Christine murmurs. She draws my book away, setting it aside.

"I am not brooding." I see that she has slipped the Kama Sutra into my hand and chuckle. It amuses me how she asks for love. "What is this?"

"You know…" she replies coyly.

"What do you want from me this day, Child?"

"You know!" She wriggles under my arm.

"You cannot say?" I tease.

"I can say," she nods. "I want you to love me." She shoves the extraneous sofa pillows to the floor. "The more you love me, the more I want you to love me," Christine marvels. "As if every meal I eat makes me hungrier. Is it that way for you as well?" she asks as we undress each other with possessive familiarity.

"It is that way for me as well; it has been that way for me from the start," I admit.

"Erik," Christine sighs, pressing me onto the sofa. "Promise we'll never tire of one another. I never want to tire of this."

"I promise, my Love."


	18. Chapter 18

The moment Christine departs for church, I head above ground by another route. I want to watch her, sunlight glinting off the wisps of her hair. Perhaps I'll spy the flush on her cheek as she turns to check the street before crossing. Perhaps I'll catch a glimpse of her ankle as the breezes flirt about her skirts. What a glorious ache, to watch her walk away; heavenly torture, as the seconds creep past until she can Amen and genuflect, and make her way back to me.

Only God tears her away from me now; I fear no man coming between us. If she is the air I breathe, so am I her water–no, wine; sometimes she truly is drunk with love for me. _Me!_ When I see my reflection now, I think, Surely this glass deceives me. I must have been transformed into the handsomest of men, or my Angel could never look at me as she does.

Christine disappears into the cathedral's embrace and I make for the flower market. Today I plan a surprise by turning our home into a wonderland of fragrance and color. How many trips will it take to fill these caverns? I hope it is the slow priest saying Mass today. I only just arrange the last bouquet when I hear Christine's footsteps.

Her expression is not what I expected. Her prayer book and bonnet hang limply in her hands.

"Angel? Are you ill?"

Christine starts; her hand flies to her throat. She had not seen me, the dark emptiness among the riot of color. She stares as I stoop to retrieve her bonnet. Her hand is icy and offers no response to mine. As I lead her to the sofa, she blinks at the flowers, uncomprehending.

"I am sorry to have startled you, my Love. I wanted to make a surprise; I know how flowers delight you."

Still she says nothing. Oh, God. _Oh, God! Help me. What can this be? _A silent eternity ticks by.

"Christine, do you not know me?" I whisper.

Her precious eyes dart to mine, then away. As they sweep over my face, I see my Angel's adoring gaze flicker, a sputtering candle; then a horrible wave of grief crashes over her. She reaches up to touch my cheek, but halts at the last. _She is afraid to touch me!_

"No," she murmurs. "I do not know you." She leaps to her feet and rushes to the bedroom, wailing, "I do not know you!"

I catch the door before she can slam it shut. Christine races to the wardrobe, tearing her dresses free. I try to embrace her and draw her away.

"Christine, what has happened? It is I; it is Erik."

"No, no! Let me go!" She struggles wildly.

"You are not afraid of me, Christine; your little husband," I remind her, my heart crashing against my chest. "Tell me," I soothe. We fall to the bed together. She screams in terror even as she tears at my clothing.

"Christine, won't you tell me what troubles you?"

"Touch me!" She cries. "Love me!" She throws her arms around me so tightly I fear she'll throttle me.

"Christine, ssshhh."

She collapses sobbing. Finally, she lies exhausted. She stares at the ceiling and speaks in a ghostly voice.

"They found her bones in the furnace. They think it was she."

Impossible. _Impossible! _"Christine, what do you mean?"

"The girl that was screaming, remember? That night, you told me it was only night terrors. See?" She sits up, and with seemingly sightless eyes, retrieves a scrap of paper from her sleeve. Torn from _L'Epoque_, it tells of some bone fragments found in the furnaces during the regular cleaning. They believe the bones to be those of Therese; they believe the murderer to be the Opera Ghost.

"What are you saying, Christine?" I demand, cold to the depths of my guts. "Who has poisoned your mind and heart against me? You accuse me of this heinous crime in order to disguise your infidelities!" I drag her to her feet, shaking her viciously. "Who else would show you this, who else would plant such a suggestion but your lover? You told me you did not meet him! You swore!" I roar.

"No," she replies, "It is true, I saw Raoul today. He told me, he showed me the paper; I admit it." She begins unbuttoning her dress numbly. "But look: Inspect me if you will; my clothing; every bit of me; everything. You will find no trace of him on me. See, Erik? I will not hesitate to shame myself if you want it. I swear to you, no one has touched me."

"'Why will you do this to me? Tell me you have no faith in me'; that is what you said! Liar! WHORE! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" I throw her to the floor.

So he _has_ been searching for her! Lying in wait to turn my Christine against me, skulking in his carriage; foul monster! When he stood at my wedding and heard those very words about 'no man put asunder'! Now, I shall surely put him down like the vicious dog he is; only unlike some pathetic creature, he merits no compassion. Surely my head will split, the way it pounds. I turn away from her and close my eyes, fighting nausea as the room begins to spin. Suddenly, something around my ankle startles me. Christine, kneeling at my feet; _how can this be?_ She presses her fists to her temples, rocking and keening. "What is to become of me if you turn me away? I have nothing…" Christine clutches handfuls of my trousers, eyes streaming again.

I tear myself from her grasp. "You must love me, Christine," I remind her bitterly, striding to the door.

She nearly struggles to her feet, but stumbles and crawls after me. "I do, Erik, please! I adore you! Forgive me, forgive me!"

"You hateful, lying baggage; how can you claim love when you accuse me? Am I a fool to you?" I shove her to the ground with my foot and tower above her, menacing.

She shakes her head wildly, her eyes wide. "No! You're no fool; you're a genius! Erik, you know I can't lie to you! You're everything to me, please. Please! What must I do? Only tell me–"

"I told you already; you must love me. When you are sincerely ready to prove your devotion, I will be overjoyed to accept the proof of it." I reach into my pocket for the key to Christine's bedroom. "I regret that I must keep you a prisoner in your own home until you can be trusted again, my Dear, but you surely you realize that you have brought this unfortunate turn of events upon yourself. Good night."

"Erik! Wait!" she cries. The door was nearly shut; I step just inside once more.

"Sleep with me," she purrs.

"Good night, Christine," I reply frostily, pull the door shut and lock it behind me. Christine begins to wail within, but I cannot hear her for long. Rushing to the lakeside, I heave until I collapse against the cool, damp stone and slip into my world of nightmares.


	19. Chapter 19

While Christine sleeps, I journey to Chagny. It is as simple to steal into his bedroom this time as it was when I came to rescue Christine from him. Boiling with hatred, I stride to his sleeping form. Withdrawing my knife from my sleeve, I insert it neatly into his left nostril. When he snorts and sputters, I snatch it away, leaving him howling and pouring blood. I have only a moment before the household staff is summoned by his alarm.

"Come, your beauty is scarcely marred! It cannot be half a centimeter–nothing at all, compared to what I long to do to you," I hiss, slipping over the windowsill and down to the road. I steal into the woods and make my way out the Paris road, leaving his idiot servants stumbling in the dark.

-0-0-0-0-

I brood when I should be composing; I sulk when I should be sleeping. I can neither concentrate nor rest, I am so unspeakably angry. Imagine Christine accusing me! If I used that girl unkindly, whose fault is that but hers? If she'd been a proper wife, not refusing her husband's privilege, I would have never had any cause to look elsewhere! And if I did, wasn't that, too, out of my slavish desire to please her, to spare her everything that she found objectionable in our life together?

After hours of endless ratiocination, it becomes clear to me: I have been too good to her and she has abused my generous nature. I cannot bear to admit to myself that I have given my very soul to a heartless child, and in truth I cannot blame Christine entirely. I am a new husband, and inclined to spoil and indulge her, I confess. She needs the firm, gentle guidance of her loving husband to show her where her wifely limits lie.

And yet, beyond her willful disobedience, her brazen dalliance with that hateful man, a more painful question remains. Indeed, if there's been treachery here, it's been Christine's. I've trusted her, done everything to please her, and how has she repaid my devotion? By believing the lies of my rival immediately, and without question! Did she say 'No, you must be wrong; I know my husband's gentility and devotion'? There is the heart of the matter, the question I must have an answer to. Why is she so quick to believe the worst of me? Why is it so simple for her to believe a man who obviously wishes her loving husband ill?

Once again, these thoughts enrage me. I burst into the room, startling Christine from sleep.

"What do you mean, believing his accusations? Don't you realize what he's about, you stupid girl?"

She hangs her head and my resolve wavers. I long to bundle her into my arms and comfort her, to tell her that all is forgiven and that I adore her as much as ever. But I must remain strong; to waver is to do us both a disservice.

"Christine, all he wants is to drive a wedge between us. You should run from him as you would run from the devil himself." I insist, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Raoul would never hurt me!" she snaps.

"Oh, is that so? You're afraid of your adoring little husband, but not that fiend? And yet, I tell you that he would never be so tender and considerate a husband as I have been, Christine. He would never tolerate your refusal of his rights. That's not how a young comte exercises his privilege, I can assure you!"

Christine claps her hands over her ears. "Please don't scold me anymore," she moans.

"Then please, Christine, please explain to me why you are so ready to believe the worst about your little husband. Why do you rush to accept what that boy says about me? Why can there be no other explanation for the disappearance of one little girl but that the Opera Ghost got her? Where is the precedent? Have I ever harmed a child?"

"I…don't think so," she admits.

"There; you see?" I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek. "You little husband doesn't harm young girls."

"Except for me…" she murmurs.


	20. Chapter 20

"Except for me…" she murmurs.

"What did you say, Christine?"

She moves away, shunning my caress. Can it be? She should be overjoyed that I'm ready to forgive her.

"Christine, what do you mean, except for you? I've never hurt you! I'd rather harm myself than ever–"

"When you brought me from the church…remember…" she whispers so softly I can scarcely hear.

What is she talking about? I've never–then I remember our wedding night. God, no; my heart breaks to think she's been holding that against me.

"Christine, Christine, my angel, no," I murmur. I gather her into my arms; she accepts my embrace grudgingly. "No, don't turn away, my Love, there is no shame here. Christine, listen to me. Did no one explain to you before the wedding? Madame Giry? Anyone?"

Still she will not meet my gaze.

"Christine, your loving husband never means to cause you any pain. It is nature, Christine; it is the way of things; every girl feels pain when she is taken for the first time. I don't understand why these things must be as they are, but it is not my doing. Surely you believe this!" I grasp her chin, perhaps too roughly in my anguish, and force her to face me. She nods slightly before dropping her eyes. I press my awful cheek to her smooth, perfect one. "If you knew how I suffered, knowing I was causing you pain; did I not apologize?" I urge her to remember.

"Yes."

"Yes, and I beg of you, Christine, I beg of you to tell me: have I hurt you ever, ever since then?"

She hesitates.

"Christine!"

"Sometimes--"

"Sometimes!" I echo in despair.

"Sometimes…when I did not want it," she confesses, coloring.

"Christine!" I wail, burying my horrible face in her tender palms. "But you love me now; you want me now," I cry, stroking her frantically. "You delight in me as I do in you!" I insist.

Fear darkens her eyes as she rushes to nod an affirmation. I can read her face; she fears I am mad. Does she say yes to soothe the madman, or to comfort her grieving bridegroom? No, no!

"You love me, Christine; I know you love your little husband! I know you love me!"

"I love you now, Erik," she promises. "Please, don't; I'm afraid."

"What do you mean, you love me now?" I demand. The girl is talking nonsense.

"Nothing, nothing. Please, Erik…don't you want me? Haven't you missed me? I've missed you," she smiles, but her expression is distracted. I know it worries her when I am emotional, but I must lay my fears to rest. We must put this behind us.

"Please, Christine, I promise you that I am not cross with you. It breaks my heart to think that you have lived a moment of your married life in fear. How can I ensure that your confidence in me is complete; are you still afraid that I might harm you, my Angel?"

"No," she replies quickly, searching my face earnestly.

"No," I sigh. "And now that you understand the circumstances, it is different, is it not, than what befell that unfortunate little girl?"

"Yes."

"Well then, you are not married to a man who violates children, are you?"

"No."

"Then why did you rush to believe the slander that hateful boy put forward against me?"

"I suppose it is different," she agrees.

"Yes, of course it is," I murmur, embracing her. Her hair is heavenly soft and fragrant.

"I wasn't a child."

True, but there's more to it than that, I think. "You were a newly married woman, my Angel," I remind her, chuckling.

"Still, you did force me, really," she avers, in her tiniest voice.

"I did not force you, Christine!" I am unable to mask my irritation. She cringes. "You were my lawful wife; what would you have me do?"

She traces the large cabbage roses on the bedspread absently. "I was to marry Raoul; you took me away from him. Right on the altar, you took me away."

"No," I draw away, baffled at her assertion. "Christine, don't you remember when you returned to me that night?" I point toward the very place where she stood with pleading eyes. "Right here; you gave me the ring, remember? I'm sorry, my Angel, I didn't realize immediately what you were trying to tell me with the ring, and with your kiss. But I came to understand, Angel, didn't I?" I smile, covering her hand with my own.

"What did you come to understand?"

"Why, that it was me you wanted after all, of course," I smile, kissing her hand.

"Oh."

"Can you forgive your Erik for being so obtuse, Christine? Sometimes he isn't such a clever boy, but you can forgive him now that you're safe at home with your loving husband, can't you?" I ease her back on the bed, suddenly hungry for her. Once again my lips seek out her tender throat, my hands explore her curves.

"I kissed you because I was afraid," she states hollowly. I freeze, my hand hovering at her hip.

"Yes, of course; you were afraid for your little childhood friend, afraid of my dreadful temper and my jealousy, and so you wanted to see him away safely," I reply impatiently. Drawing away slightly, I glimpse my bride's eyes; what is troubling her so? Relenting, I speak more softly. "Of course your Erik would not hurt your little friend, but you could not know that. Poor Christine, your Erik has given you a fright a time or two, hasn't he? I'm sorry, Angel." I kiss her gently. "I know I have a fearful temper, Christine, but I've been better, haven't I, since we've been married? Haven't I?"

"Yes, much better," she agrees.

I reach for the buttons on her dress. "I want you, Angel," I whisper. "Touch me; I need your blessing touch." Her hands move awkwardly, hesitantly, as if she is suddenly afraid of my flesh. "What is it, Christine? What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Why do you tremble, then?"

"I'm not trembling!" She lies like a child, with huge guilty eyes.

"But you are, Christine; look at yourself!" I cry; she baffles me.

"I don't know. I'm cold." Is she cold, or does she grasp at the explanation nearest at hand? I don't know what to think of her anymore. I roll away and sit on the edge of the bed, disgusted. I hear water dripping in this interminable silence.

"You aren't angry, are you, Erik?" she worries. "Here, I'll get undressed." She bustles and rustles behind me, finally slipping between cool sheets and lying still. I turn down the lamp as dim as it will go and undress slowly. I cannot grasp any of the thoughts which skitter around my mind like so many dry leaves in a wintry breeze. Perhaps she is cold; I feel a chill deep in my bones as well.

When I embrace Christine, she is as soft and warm as ever, but there is no yielding sigh, no gentle welcome. My kiss, begun so tenderly, turns frantic as I cajole, beg, urge her lips to respond. Finally, it grows rough and she turns her face away numbly. Still I persist, confident I can make her want me; soon she will warm to my touch. I caress her in all the ways which please her most, waiting for a sign, but she gives none. Where are you, Christine, where have you gone? She flinches when I press inside her. Suddenly, I feel heartsick, and more alone than I have ever felt. I rub my cheek against hers and begin to sob silently.

"No," I gasp, crawling away from her. Now raw and inhuman sounds escape my throat, and words; a prayer for understanding. Because I do not understand at all, God, not at all.

I did not feel Christine leave our bed, but the bath is running. I'm just trying to get clean; that is what she always says.


	21. Chapter 21

I awake in the grip of fever and a blinding headache. The room spins and I retch violently unless I remain motionless with my eyes clamped shut. Christine soothes my brow and holds my hand.

"This is all my fault; I've hurt you too much, too much," she despairs, hiding her precious face in her hands. I don't know what she means.

-0-0-0-0-

I sleep fitfully; how long, I don't know, but whenever I wake, she remains by my side. I desire neither food nor drink, but she encourages me to partake, rewarding me with smiles and telling me how it pleases her when I do so.

Eventually I am able to stay awake and look around me without sickness or a nameless panic overtaking me. Soon, I can function again. I move like an automaton through my home, speaking of trivialities with the beautiful girl whose eyes overflow with concern for me. Yet, for all her tender care, for all the joy she gives me, my grief seems endless. My Christine is gone; I can remember no details. I was ill; when I awoke, finally well again, she was gone. If only I could remember, I tell myself, it would make a difference in my grief. Then again, perhaps I shouldn't struggle with the memories so. How does one get over the love of one's life?

"Here, Erik; take this for me; it will help you to sleep." She puts laudanum in my nighttime tea, for some weeks now. She says I walk the corridors at night, moaning and mourning, and it terrifies everyone upstairs. She is afraid, I know, that I'm mad as a hatter, but I have never been more lucid.

-0-0-0-0-

One day, she tells me she must go above. We need all manner of provisions; everything is depleted. "I would like to go to Mass before marketing, Erik. It is so long since I've been…"

"Of course, Child. Take whatever time you need; you needn't rush back to me. I…ha, ha…am not going anywhere. Here; get yourself something pretty," I smile, pressing a little extra money on her.

She smiles gratefully, dresses, and is gone. She is a good girl; I think she will keep her word and return as soon as she can, taking no time for herself. Once she has left me, I feel free to weep. It upsets her so to see me in my grief.

It is only upon waking that I realize I've slept. She is returned, and bustles about restocking our pantry. When she notices that I've awakened, she rushes to me with a smile. "Look, Erik; I've brought _L'Epoque_. It has all the news of the new theater season, and…look," she urges, pressing the paper into my hand. It seems crucial to her that I take some interest in the world above; all of a sudden, there is so much in this life that I don't understand. Still, if it is important to her, I will read the paper and converse with her about what I can learn.

-0-0-0-0-

Time passes; I can tell by the flowers that she brings below. A new pattern to life emerges. Her ministrations are unflagging; her capacity for compassion seems limitless. I come to realize that if I remain a kind of an invalid, I can keep her with me forever. But even a monster knows slavery is wrong. No; it is precisely because I am a monster that I know how wrong it is to imprison a body, much less a heart and soul. She hides from life down here with me.

"Come here, Child; come here. Sit with Erik awhile." She smiles and places her little hand in mine. "You must not stay here, playing nursemaid to an old man, my dear. Go, go have your life as I have had mine," I smile.

"Erik, please…" her eyes darken as they do every time I try to speak to her this way.

"Whatever became of that fine young man? You remember…your Mother liked him so very much. It would please her to know that–"

"Erik…"

"And me, too. It would please me, too. How can I rest easy in my dotage, worrying what's to become of you after I'm gone?"

"Don't…there's nothing wrong with you," she sighs. "You're perfectly healthy."

"But I am an old man, Child. Before too long, I'll join your Mother." She begins to weep silently. "Hush, now; I want to go. I've had my time. It's your turn now." Stubborn child, she won't listen. But I know how to wear her down; just a little word here and there, every day.

-0-0-0-0-

She must have returned from Mass; I hear the sounds of tea being prepared. I slip into my dressing gown and make my way to the parlor. She has a guest; the young man leaps to his feet with a start. She is on her feet, too, rushing to my side with a tight little smile.

"Erik, you remember my friend, Raoul, don't you?" She seems so fretful. Her young man nearly cringes when I approach him.

"Of course," I extend my hand, smiling as best I can. He takes my hand, looking hopelessly confused. "You look as tough you've seen a ghost, young man. Ha, ha!" Perhaps I am mad after all; I always laugh at my own jokes even when no one else does. I think these two make a fine couple; both of them solemn and worried all the time.

I fiddle with my piano, humming. I am trying to give the children a bit of privacy, but when I have a surreptitious look at them, they are murmuring anxiously and glancing furtively in my direction. Obviously this serious little couple will get up to no mischief with the old man about, so I decide I will sit and make conversation with the boy.

"I hope you will stay for tea, Raoul. Little Christine is a fine cook."

"Thank you, I will."

I shake a bony finger at him. "I remember you from the Opera, do I not?"

He glances at my daughter quizzically; she shrugs. "Ah, yes, I…have been a patron for some time."

I nod. "Did you ever hear my Christine sing? She made the angels weep…" Try as I might, I still cannot speak of her without tears threatening. "Forgive me, she is only recently gone…"

Young Raoul looks to her, embarrassed and confused; she moves to his side and whispers, "He doesn't remember…anything."

"My God," he whispers, "I didn't believe it when you told me."

"Ssshhh; he is happy most of the time, and as you see, harmless." What the devil does she man, harmless? How quickly they forget; I was the fearsome Opera Ghost, a lifetime ago, it seems now.

After tea, Raoul tells me that he would like to bring little Christine and me to his home, outside Paris. I suppose in her devotion, she has refused to leave her decrepit old father in the caverns. She is a good girl.

What choice do I have? My life is over; hers only beginning. Yet when I leave this place behind, there will be nothing left of my life with her mother, except what I hold in my heart. I wish they would let me stay, but she is a stubborn girl; I know she will never permit it. Still, let me give it one try.

"I don't know; I am an old man, and set in my ways. Look around you, Raoul: this place is all my life with my Christine–your little Christine's Mother. I met her at the Opera, you know; I was a musician, and she was an angel of music. See the costumes, the sets and stagings I designed for her--these watercolors, these sketches–all Christine. Look at your Christine, hm? The absolute image of her Mother. Better I should stay here with my memories, and you children make your way. I'm alright."

She rushes to my side and falls to her knees. "No, Erik, I won't leave you!" she cries. "Raoul--tell him, please tell him he's welcome!"

"Of course; you're absolutely welcome. Christine wouldn't hear of leaving you here alone…and…neither would I." I believe he is perfectly sincere; he adores my daughter, and would do anything for her, but he is uncomfortable with me, I can see it. Ah well, with time I will just be old granddad; he will accustom to my face, such as it is. He is a decent young fellow. My Christine always liked him.

"Will you come, Erik?" he asks. He seems to have some trouble speaking my name. I wonder if my little Christine's young man isn't too bright. Still, I remember he has some title, so-and-so, so she'll be well taken care of.

"Yes, I will come," I smile sadly. "One cannot stand in the way of young love, hm?"

When I look at my daughter, I see that her eyes are streaming. It is not the reaction I expected, but perhaps they are tears of joy. She rushes to me, overwhelmed with emotion, and grips my hands so tightly it almost hurts.

"Please, Erik, look at me. Look at me, won't you? Erik, don't you know me?"

"Of course I know you, my Angel," I whisper, cradling her lovely cheek in my palm. "You are my good little girl. How I wish your Mother could have seen you happily settled with this young man." She closes her eyes and embraces me as if she will never do so again; silly girl.

"Oh, Erik…" she emits a deep, shuddering sigh.

"Come now; we mustn't keep your beau waiting."

FIN


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